The complete works, poetry and prose, of the Rev. Edward Young prefixed, a life of the author, by John Doran ... With eight illustrations on steel, and a portrait. In two volumes

Thrice happy Job long lived in regal state:
Nor saw the sumptuous East a prince so great,
Whose worldly stores in such abundance flow'd,
Whose heart with such exalted virtue glow'd.
At length misfortunes take their turn to reign,
And ills on ills succeed, a dreadful train!

247

What now but deaths, and poverty, and wrong,
The sword wide-wasting, the reproachful tongue,
And spotted plagues, that mark'd his limbs all o'er
So thick with pains, they wanted room for more?
A change so sad what mortal heart could bear?
Exhausted woe had left him nought to fear,
But gave him all to grief. Low earth he press'd,
Wept in the dust, and sorely smote his breast.
His friends around the deep affliction mourn'd,
Felt all his pangs, and groan for groan return'd;
In anguish of their hearts their mantles rent,
And seven long days in solemn silence spent;
A debt of reverence to distress so great!
Then Job contain'd no more, but cursed his fate.
His day of birth, its inauspicious light
He wishes sunk in shades of endless night,
And blotted from the year; nor fears to crave
Death, instant death; impatient for the grave,
That seat of bliss, that mansion of repose,
Where rest and mortals are no longer foes;
Where counsellors are hush'd, and mighty kings
(O happy turn!) no more are wretched things.

His words were daring, and displeased his friends;
His conduct they reprove, and he defends:
And now they kindled into warm debate,
And sentiments opposed with equal heat;
Fix'd in opinion, both refuse to yield,
And summon all their reason to the field.
So high at length their arguments were wrought,
They reach'd the last extent of human thought:
A pause ensued:—when, lo! Heaven interposed,
And awfully the long contention closed.
Full o'er their heads, with terrible surprise,
A sudden whirlwind blacken'd all the skies.

248

(They saw, and trembled!) From the darkness broke
A dreadful voice; and thus the' Almighty spoke:—

“Who gives his tongue a loose so bold and vain,
Censures my conduct, and reproves my reign?
Lifts up his thoughts against me from the dust,
And tells the world's Creator what is just?
Of late so brave, now lift a dauntless eye,
Face my demand, and give it a reply:—
Where didst thou dwell at nature's early birth?
Who laid foundations for the spacious earth?
Who on its surface did extend the line,
Its form determine, and its bulk confine?
Who fix'd the corner-stone? What hand, declare,
Hung it on nought, and fasten'd it in air;
When the bright morning-stars in concert sung,
When heaven's high arch with loud hosannas rung,
When shouting sons of God the triumph crown'd,
And the wide concave thunder'd with the sound?

“Earth's numerous kingdoms,—hast thou view'd them all?
And can thy span of knowledge grasp the ball?
Who heaved the mountain, which sublimely stands,
And casts its shadow into distant lands?

“Who, stretching forth his sceptre o'er the deep,
Can that wild world in due subjection keep?
I broke the globe, I scoop'd its hollow'd side,
And did a basin for the floods provide;
I chain'd them with my word: the boiling sea,
Work'd up in tempests, hears my great decree:
‘Thus far thy floating tide shall be convey'd;
And here, O main, be thy proud billows stay'd.’

249

“Hast thou explored the secrets of the deep,
Where, shut from use, unnumber'd treasures sleep?
Where, down a thousand fathoms from the day,
Springs the great fountain, mother of the sea?
Those gloomy paths did thy bold foot e'er tread,
Whole worlds of waters rolling o'er thy head?

“Hath the cleft centre open'd wide to thee?
Death's inmost chambers didst thou ever see?
E'er knock at his tremendous gate, and wade
To the black portal through the' incumbent shade?
Deep are those shades; but shades still deeper hide
My counsels from the ken of human pride.

“Where dwells the light? in what refulgent dome?
And where has darkness made her dismal home?
Thou know'st, no doubt; since thy large heart is fraught
With ripen'd wisdom, through long ages brought;
Since nature was call'd forth when thou wast by,
And into being rose beneath thine eye!

“Are mists begotten? Who their father knew?
From whom descend the pearly drops of dew?
To bind the stream by night, what hand can boast,
Or whiten morning with the hoary frost?
Whose powerful breath, from northern regions blown,
Touches the sea, and turns it into stone,
A sudden desert spreads o'er realms defaced,
And lays one half of the creation waste?

“Thou know'st me not: thy blindness cannot see
How vast a distance parts thy God from thee.
Canst thou in whirlwinds mount aloft? Canst thou
In clouds and darkness wrap thy awful brow,
And, when day triumphs in meridian light,
Put forth thy hand, and shade the world with night?

“Who launch'd the clouds in air, and bid them roll
Suspended seas aloft from pole to pole?
Who can refresh the burning sandy plain,
And quench the summer with a waste of rain?
Who, in rough deserts, far from human toil,
Made rocks bring forth, and desolation smile?
There blooms the rose, where human face ne'er shone,
And spreads its beauties to the sun alone.

250

“To check the shower, who lifts his hand on high,
And shuts the sluices of the' exhausted sky,
When earth no longer mourns her gaping veins,
Her naked mountains, and her russet plains;
But, new in life, a cheerful prospect yields
Of shining rivers, and of verdant fields;
When groves and forests lavish all their bloom,
And earth and heaven are fill'd with rich perfume?

“Hast thou e'er scaled my wintry skies, and seen
Of hail and snows my northern magazine?
These the dread treasure of mine anger are,
My funds of vengeance for the day of war,
When clouds rain death, and storms, at my command,
Rage through the world, or waste a guilty land.

“Who taught the rapid winds to fly so fast,
Or shakes the centre with his eastern blast?
Who from the skies can a whole deluge pour?
Who strikes through nature with the solemn roar
Of dreadful thunder, points it where to fall,
And in fierce lightning wraps the flying ball?
Not he who trembles at the darted fires,
Falls at the sound, and in the flash expires.

“Who drew the comet out to such a size,
And pour'd his flaming train o'er half the skies?
Did thy resentment hang him out? Does he
Glare on the nations, and denounce, from thee?

“Who on low earth can moderate the rein
That guides the stars along the' ethereal plain,
Appoint their seasons, and direct their course,
Their lustre brighten, and supply their force?
Canst thou the skies' benevolence restrain,
And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain?
Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere,
Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year?
Bid Mazzaroth his destined station know,
And teach the bright Areturus where to glow?
Mine is the Night, with all her stars: I pour
Myriads, and myriads I reserve in store.

“Dost thou pronounce where daylight shall be born,
And draw the purple curtain of the morn;
Awake the sun, and bid him come away,
And glad thy world with his obsequious ray?
Hast thou, enthroned in flaming glory, driven
Triumphant round the spacious ring of heaven?

251

That pomp of light what hand so far displays,
That distant earth lies basking in the blaze?

“Who did the soul with her rich powers invest,
And light up reason in the human breast,
To shine, with fresh increase of lustre bright,
When stars and sun are set in endless night?
To these my various questions make reply.”

The' Almighty spoke; and, speaking, shook the sky.

The Almighty's speech, (chap. xxxviii. &c.,) which is what I paraphrase in this little work, is by much the finest part of the noblest and most ancient poem in the world. Bishop Patrick says, its grandeur is as much above all other poetry, as thunder is louder than a whisper. In order to set this distinguished part of the poem in a fuller light, and give the reader a clearer conception of it, I have abridged the preceding and subsequent parts of the poem, and joined them to it; so that this piece is a sort of an epitome of the whole Book of Job.

I use the word “Paraphrase,” because I want another which might better answer to the uncommon liberties I have taken. I have omitted, added, and transposed. The mountain, the comet, the sun, and other parts, are entirely added; those upon the peacock, the lion, &c., are much enlarged; and I have thrown the whole into a method more suitable to our notions of regularity. The judicious, if they compare this piece with the original, will, I flatter myself, find the reasons for the great liberties I have indulged myself in through the whole.

Longinus has a chapter on interrogations, which shows that they contribute much to the sublime. This speech of the Almighty is made up of them. Interrogation seems, indeed, the proper style of majesty incensed. It differs from other manner of reproof, as bidding a person execute himself does from a common execution; for he that asks the guilty a proper question, makes him, in effect, pass sentence on himself.

The Book of Job is well known to be dramatic, and, like the tragedies of old Greece, is fiction built on truth. Probably this most noble part of it—the Almighty speaking out of the whirlwind—(so suitable to the after-practice of the Greek stage, when there happened dignus vindice nodus) is fictitious; but it is a fiction more agreeable to the time in which Job lived than to any since. Frequent before the Law were the appearances of the Almighty after this manner. (Exod. xix.; Ezek. i., &c.) Hence is He said to “dwell in thick darkness, and have His way in the whirlwind.”

There is a very great air in all that precedes, but this is signally sublime. We are struck with admiration to see the vast and ungovernable ocean receiving commands, and punctually obeying them; to find it like a managed horse, raging, tossing, and foaming, but by the rule and direction of its master. This passage yields in sublimity to that of “Let there be light,” &c., so much only as the absolute government of nature yields to the creation of it. The like spirit in these two passages is no bad concurrent argument that Moses is author of the Book of Job.

What then, Chaldæan sire, was thy surprise!
Thus thou, with trembling heart and downcast eyes:—
“Once and again, which I in groans deplore,
My tongue has err'd; but shall presume no more.
My voice is in eternal silence bound,
And all my soul falls prostrate to the ground.”

He ceased: when, lo! again the' Almighty spoke;
The same dread voice from the black whirlwind broke:—

“Can that arm measure with an Arm Divine?
And canst thou thunder with a voice like mine?
Or in the hollow of thy hand contain
The bulk of waters, the wide-spreading main,
When, mad with tempests, all the billows rise
In all their rage, and dash the distant skies?

“Come forth, in beauty's excellence array'd;
And be the grandeur of thy power display'd;
Put on omnipotence, and, frowning, make
The spacious round of the creation shake;
Despatch thy vengeance, bid it overthrow
Triumphant Vice, lay lofty tyrants low,
And crumble them to dust. When this is done,
I grant thy safety lodged in thee alone;
Of thee thou art, and mayst undaunted stand
Behind the buckler of thine own right hand.

“Fond man, the vision of a moment made!
Dream of a dream, and shadow of a shade!
What worlds hast thou produced, what creatures framed,
What insects cherish'd, that thy God is blamed?
When, pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood
Loud calls on God, importunate for food,

252

Who hears their cry, who grants their hoarse request,
And stills the clamour of the craving nest?

“Who in the stupid ostrich has subdued
A parent's care and fond inquietude?
While far she flies, her scatter'd eggs are found,
Without an owner, on the sandy ground:
Cast out on fortune, they at mercy lie,
And borrow life from an indulgent sky:
Adopted by the sun, in blaze of day,
They ripen under his prolific ray;
Unmindful she, that some unhappy tread
May crush her young in their neglected bed.
What time she skims along the field with speed,
She scorns the rider and pursuing steed.

“How rich the peacock! What bright glories run
From plume to plume, and vary in the sun!
He proudly spreads them to the golden ray,
Gives all his colours, and adorns the day;

253

With conscious state the spacious round displays,
And slowly moves amid the waving blaze.

“Who taught the hawk to find, in seasons wise,
Perpetual summer, and a change of skies?
When clouds deform the year, she mounts the wind,
Shoots to the south, nor fears the storm behind;
The sun returning, she returns again,
Lives in his beams, and leaves ill days to men.

“Though strong the hawk, though practised well to fly,
An eagle drops her in a lower sky;
An eagle, when, deserting human sight,
She seeks the sun in her unwearied flight.
Did thy command her yellow pinion lift
So high in air, and set her on the clift,
Where far above thy world she dwells alone,
And proudly makes the strength of rocks her own;
Thence wide o'er nature takes her dread survey,
And with a glance predestinates her prey?
She feasts her young with blood; and, hovering o'er
The' unslaughter'd host, enjoys the promised gore.

“Know'st thou how many moons, by me assign'd,
Roll o'er the mountain goat and forest hind,
While pregnant they a mother's load sustain?
They bend in anguish, and cast forth their pain.

254

Hale are their young, from human frailties freed;
Walk unsustain'd, and unassisted feed:
They live at once, forsake the dam's warm side,
Take the wide world, with Nature for their guide,
Bound o'er the lawn, or seek the distant glade,
And find a home in each delightful shade.

“Will the tall reem, which knows no lord but me,
Low at the crib, and ask an alms of thee?
Submit his unworn shoulder to the yoke,
Break the stiff clod, and o'er thy furrow smoke?
Since great his strength, go trust him, void of care;
Lay on his neck the toil of all the year;
Bid him bring home the seasons to thy doors,
And cast his load among thy gather'd stores.

“Didst thou from service the wild ass discharge,
And break his bonds, and bid him live at large,
Through the wide waste, his ample mansion, roam,
And lose himself in his unbounded home?
By Nature's hand magnificently fed,
His meal is on the range of mountains spread:
As in pure air aloft he bounds along,
He sees in distant smoke the city throng;
Conscious of freedom, scorns the smother'd train,
The threatening driver, and the servile rein.

“Survey the warlike horse: didst thou invest
With thunder his robust distended chest?
No sense of fear his dauntless soul allays;
'T is dreadful to behold his nostrils blaze;
To paw the vale he proudly takes delight,
And triumphs in the fulness of his might.

255

High-raised he snuffs the battle from afar,
And burns to plunge amid the raging war;
And mocks at death, and throws his foam around,
And in a storm of fury shakes the ground.
How does his firm, his rising heart advance
Full on the brandish'd sword, and shaken lance;
While his fix'd eye-balls meet the dazzling shield,
Gaze, and return the lightning of the field!
He sinks the sense of pain in generous pride,
Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side;
But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful blast
Till death; and when he groans, he groans his last.

“But, fiercer still, the lordly lion stalks,
Grimly majestic in his lonely walks:
When round he glares, all living creatures fly;
He clears the desert with his rolling eye.
Say, mortal, does he rouse at thy command,
And roar to thee, and live upon thy hand?
Dost thou for him in forests bend thy bow,
And to his gloomy den the morsel throw,
Where, bent on death, lie hid his tawny brood,
And, couch'd in dreadful ambush, pant for blood;
Or, stretch'd on broken limbs, consume the day,
In darkness wrapp'd, and slumber o'er their prey?
By the pale moon they take their destin'd round,
And lash their sides, and furious tear the ground.
Now shrieks and dying groans the desert fill;
They rage, they rend; their ravenous jaws distil
With crimson foam; and, when the banquet's o'er,
They stride away, and paint their steps with gore.
In flight alone the shepherd puts his trust,
And shudders at the talon in the dust.

“Mild is my behemoth, though large his frame;
Smooth is his temper, and repress'd his flame,
While unprovoked. This native of the flood
Lifts his broad foot, and puts ashore for food:
Earth sinks beneath him, as he moves along
To seek the herds, and mingle with the throng.

256

See with what strength his harden'd loins are bound,
All over proof and shut against a wound.
How like a mountain-cedar moves his tail!
Nor can his complicated sinews fail.
Built high and wide, his solid bones surpass
The bars of steel; his ribs are ribs of brass;
His port majestic, and his armed jaw,
Give the wide forest, and the mountain, law.
The mountains feed him; there the beasts admire
The mighty stranger, and in dread retire;
At length his greatness nearer they survey,
Graze in his shadow, and his eye obey.
The fens and marshes are his cool retreat,
His noontide shelter from the burning heat;
Their sedgy bosoms his wide couch are made,
And groves of willows give him all their shade.
His eye drinks Jordan up, when, fired with drought,
He trusts to turn its current down his throat;
In lessen'd waves it creeps along the plain:
He sinks a river, and he thirsts again.

“Go to the Nile, and, from its fruitful side,
Cast forth thy line into the swelling tide:
With slender hair leviathan command,
And stretch his vastness on the loaded strand.
Will he become thy servant? Will he own
Thy lordly nod, and tremble at thy frown?
Or with his sport amuse thy leisure-day,
And, bound in silk, with thy soft maidens play?

“Shall pompous banquets swell with such a prize,
And the bowl journey round his ample size?

257

Or the debating merchants share the prey,
And various limbs to various marts convey?
Through his firm skull what steel its way can win?
What forceful engine can subdue his skin?
Fly far, and live; tempt not his matchless might:
The bravest shrink to cowards in his sight;
The rashest dare not rouse him up: Who, then,
Shall turn on me, among the sons of men?

“Am I a debtor? Hast thou ever heard
Whence come the gifts that are on me conferr'd?
My lavish fruit a thousand valleys fills,
And mine the herds that graze a thousand hills:
Earth, sea, and air,—all nature is my own;
And stars and sun are dust beneath my throne.
And darest thou with the world's great Father vie,
Thou, who dost tremble at my creature's eye?

“At full my huge leviathan shall rise,
Boast all his strength, and spread his wondrous size.
Who, great in arms, e'er stripp'd his shining mail,
Or crown'd his triumph with a single scale?
Whose heart sustains him to draw near? Behold,
Destruction yawns; his spacious jaws unfold,
And, marshall'd round the wide expanse, disclose
Teeth edged with death, and crowding rows on rows.
What hideous fangs on either side arise!
And what a deep abyss between them lies!
Mete with thy lance, and with thy plummet sound,
The one how long, the other how profound.

“His bulk is charged with such a furious soul,
That clouds of smoke from his spread nostrils roll,
As from a furnace; and, when roused his ire,
Fate issues from his jaws in streams of fire.

258

The rage of tempests, and the roar of seas,
Thy terror, this thy great superior please.
Strength on his ample shoulder sits in state;
His well-join'd limbs are dreadfully complete;
His flakes of solid flesh are slow to part;
As steel his nerves, as adamant his heart.

“When, late awaked, he rears him from the floods,
And, stretching forth his stature to the clouds,
Writhes in the sun aloft his scaly height,
And strikes the distant hills with transient light,
Far round are fatal damps of terror spread;
The mighty fear, nor blush to own their dread.

“Large is his front; and when his burnish'd eyes
Lift their broad lids, the morning seems to rise.

“In vain may death in various shapes invade,
The swift-wing'd arrow, the descending blade:
His naked breast their impotence defies;
The dart rebounds, the brittle falchion flies.
Shut in himself, the war without he hears,
Safe in the tempest of their rattling spears;

259

The cumber'd strand their wasted volleys strow;
His sport, the rage and labour of the foe.

“His pastimes like a caldron boil the flood,
And blacken ocean with the rising mud;
The billows feel him, as he works his way;
His hoary footsteps shine along the sea;
The foam, high-wrought, with white divides the green,
And distant sailors point where death has been.

“His like earth bears not on her spacious face:
Alone in nature stands his dauntless race,
For utter ignorance of fear renown'd.
In wrath he rolls his baleful eye around;
Makes every swoln, disdainful heart subside,
And holds dominion o'er the sons of pride.”

Then the Chaldæan eased his labouring breast,
With full conviction of his crime oppress'd:—

“Thou canst accomplish all things, Lord of might!
And every thought is naked to Thy sight.
But, O! Thy ways are wonderful, and lie
Beyond the deepest reach of mortal eye.
Oft have I heard of Thine almighty power,
But never saw Thee till this dreadful hour.
O'erwhelm'd with shame, the Lord of life I see,
Abhor myself, and give my soul to Thee.
Nor shall my weakness tempt Thine anger more:
Man was not made to question, but adore.”

Another argument that Moses was the author is, that most of the creatures here mentioned are Egyptian. The reason given why the raven is particularly mentioned as an object of the care of Providence is, because by her clamorous and importunate voice she particularly seems always calling upon it. Thence κορασσω, α κοραξ is “too ask earnestly:” (Ælian. lib. ii. cap. 48:) and since there were ravens on the banks of the Nile more clamorous than the rest of that species, those probably are meant in this place.

There are many instances of this bird's stupidity: let two suffice. First. It covers its head in the reeds, and thinks itself all out of sight:

------ Stat lumine clauso
Ridendum revoluta caput, creditque latere
Quem non ipsa videt.

—Claudianus, In Eutropium, lib. ii. 314.

Secondly. They that go in pursuit of them draw the skin of an ostrich's neck on one hand, which proves a sufficient lure to take them with the other. They have so little brain, that Heliogabalus had six hundred heads for his supper.

Here we may observe, that our judicious as well as sublime author just touches the great points of distinction in each creature, and then hastens to another. A description is exact when you cannot add but what is common to another thing, nor withdraw but something peculiarly belonging to the thing described. A likeness is lost in too much description, as a meaning often in too much illustration.

Here is marked another peculiar quality of this creature, which neither flies nor runs distinctly, but has a motion composed of both, and, using its wings as sails, makes great speed.

Vasta velut Libyæ venantum vocibus ales
Cùm premitur, calidas cursu transmittit arenas,
Inque modum veli sinuatis flamine pennis
Pulverulenta volat.

—Claudianus, In Eutropium, lib. ii. 310.

Xenophon says, Cyrus had horses that could overtake the goat and the wild ass; but none that could reach this creature. A thousand golden ducats, or a hundred camels, was the stated price of a horse that could equal their speed.

Though this bird is but just mentioned in my author, I could not forbear going a little farther, and spreading those beautiful plumes (which are there shut up) into half a dozen lines. The circumstance I have marked, of his opening his plumes to the sun, is true: Expandit colores adverso maximè sole, quia sic fulgentiùs radiant. —Plinii Hist. Nat. lib. x. cap. 20.

Thuanus (De Re Accip.) mentions a hawk that flew from Paris to London in a night. And the Egyptians, in regard to its swiftness, made it their symbol for the wind; for which reason we may suppose the hawk, as well as the crow above, to have been a bird of note in Egypt.

The eagle is said to be of so acute a sight, that when she is so high in air that man cannot see her, she can discern the smallest fish under water. My author accurately understood the nature of the creatures he describes, and seems to have been a naturalist as well as a poet, which the next note will confirm.

The meaning of this question is, “Knowest thou the time and circumstances of their bringing forth?” For to know the time only was easy, and had nothing extraordinary in it; but the circumstances had something peculiarly expressive of God's Providence, which makes the question proper in this place. Pliny observes, that the hind with young is by instinct directed to a certain herb called seselis, which facilitates the birth. Thunder also (which looks like the more immediate hand of Providence) has the same effect. (Psalm xxix. 9.) In so early an age to observe these things, may style our author a naturalist.

The description of the horse is the most celebrated of any in the poem. There is an excellent critique on it in the “Guardians.” I shall therefore only observe, that in this description, as in other parts of this speech, our vulgar translation has much more spirit than the Septuagint; it always takes the original in the most poetic and exalted sense; so that most commentators, even on the Hebrew itself, fall beneath it.

Pursuing their prey by night is true of most wild beasts, particularly the lion. (Psalm civ. 20.) The Arabians have one among their five hundred names for the lion which signifies “the hunter by moonshine.”

“Cephisi glaciale caput, quò suetus anhelam
Ferre sitim Python, amnemque avertere ponto.
Statii Thebais, lib. vii. 349. Qui spiris tegeret montes, hauriret hiatu
Flumina, &c.
—Claudianus, In Rufinum, Præf. ad lib. i. 3.

Let not, then, this hyperbole seem too much for an eastern poet, though some commentators of name strain hard in this place for a new construction, through fear of it.

The taking the crocodile is most difficult. Diodorus says, they are not to be taken but by iron nets. When Augustus conquered Egypt, he struck a medal, the impress of which was a crocodile chained to a palmtree, with this inscription, Nemo antea religavit.

This alludes to a custom of this creature, which is, when sated with fish, to come ashore and sleep among the reeds.

The crocodile's mouth is exceeding wide. When he gapes, says Pliny, fit totum os. Martial says to his old woman,

Cùm comparata rictibus tuis ora
Niliacus habeat crocodilus angusta.
—Lib. iii. Epig. xciii. 6.

So that the expression there is barely just.

This too is nearer truth than at first view may be imagined. The crocodile, say the naturalists, lying long under water, and being there forced to hold its breath, when it emerges, the breath long repressed is hot, and bursts out so violently, that it resembles fire and smoke. The horse suppresses not his breath by any means so long, neither is he so fierce and animated; yet the most correct of poets ventures to use the same metaphor concerning him:

Collectumque premens volvit sub naribus ignem.
Virgilii Georg. lib. iii. 85.

By this and the foregoing note I would caution against a false opinion of the eastern boldness, from passages in them ill understood.

His eyes are like the eye-lids of the morning.—I think this gives us as great an image of the thing it would express, as can enter the thought of man. It is not improbable that the Egyptians stole their hieroglyphic for the morning, which is the crocodile's eye, from this passage, though no commentator I have seen mentions it. It is easy to conceive how the Egyptians should be both readers and admirers of the writings of Moses, whom I suppose the author of this poem.

I have observed already that three or four of the creatures here described are Egyptian: the two last are notoriously so; they are the river-horse and the crocodile, those celebrated inhabitants of the Nile; and on these two it is that our author chiefly dwells. It would have been expected from an author more remote from that river than Moses, in a catalogue of creatures produced to magnify their Creator, to have dwelt on the two largest works of His hand, viz., the elephant and the whale. This is so natural an expectation, that some commentators have rendered behemoth and leviathan “the elephant” and “whale,” though the descriptions in our author will not admit of it; but Moses being, as we may well suppose, under an immediate terror of the hippopotamos and crocodile, from their daily mischiefs and ravages around him, it is very accountable why he should permit them to take place.

END OF PARAPHRASE ON THE BOOK OF JOB.

It is disputed amongst the critics, who was the author of the Book of Job: some give it to Moses, some to others. As I was engaged in this little performance, some arguments occurred to me which favour the former of these opinions; which arguments I have flung into the following notes, where little else is to be expected.

260

A POEM ON THE LAST DAY.

IN THREE BOOKS.

Venit summa dies. —Virgilii Æneid. lib. ii. 324.

[_]

PRINTED IN 1713.

DEDICATION. TO THE QUEEN.

262

BOOK I.

Ipse pater, mediâ nimborum in nocte, corusca
Fulmina molitur dextrâ: quo maxima motu
Terra tremit: fugêre feræ, et mortalia corda
Per gentes humilis stravit pavor.
—Virgilii Georg. lib. i. 328.

While others sing the fortune of the great,
Empire and arms, and all the pomp of state;
With Britain's hero set their souls on fire,
And grow immortal as his deeds inspire;
I draw a deeper scene; a scene that yields
A louder trumpet and more dreadful fields:—
The world alarm'd, both earth and heaven o'erthrown,
And gasping Nature's last tremendous groan;
Death's ancient sceptre broke, the teeming tomb,
The righteous Judge, and man's eternal doom.

'Twixt joy and pain I view the bold design,
And ask my anxious heart if it be mine.
Whatever great or dreadful has been done
Within the sight of conscious stars or sun,
Is far beneath my daring: I look down
On all the splendours of the British crown.
This globe is for my verse a narrow bound;
Attend me, all ye glorious worlds around!

263

O! all ye angels, howsoe'er disjoin'd,
Of every various order, place, and kind,
Hear and assist a feeble mortal's lays;
'Tis your eternal King I strive to praise.

But chiefly Thou, great Ruler, Lord of all!
Before whose throne archangels prostrate fall;
If at Thy nod, from discord and from night,
Sprang beauty, and yon sparkling worlds of light,
Exalt e'en me: all inward tumults quell;
The clouds and darkness of my mind dispel;
To my great subject Thou my breast inspire,
And raise my labouring soul with equal fire.

Man, bear thy brow aloft; view every grace
In God's great offspring, beauteous Nature's face:
See Spring's gay bloom; see golden Autumn's store;
See how Earth smiles, and hear old Ocean roar.
Leviathans but heave their cumbrous mail,
It makes a tide, and wind-bound navies sail.
Here, forests rise, the mountain's awful pride;
Here, rivers measure climes, and worlds divide;
There, valleys fraught with gold's resplendent seeds,
Hold kings and kingdoms' fortunes in their beds:
There, to the skies aspiring hills ascend,
And into distant lands their shades extend.
View cities, armies, fleets; of fleets the pride,
See Europe's law in Albion's Channel ride.
View the whole earth's vast landscape unconfined,
Or view in Britain all her glories join'd.

Then let the firmament thy wonder raise;
'T will raise thy wonder, but transcend thy praise.
How far from east to west? The labouring eye
Can scarce the distant azure bounds descry:
Wide theatre! where tempests play at large,
And God's right hand can all its wrath discharge.
Mark how those radiant lamps inflame the pole,
Call forth the seasons, and the year control:
They shine through time, with an unalter'd ray,
See this grand period rise, and that decay:
So vast, this world's a grain; yet myriads grace,
With golden pomp, the throng'd ethereal space;
So bright, with such a wealth of glory stored,
'T were sin in Heathens not to have adored.

How great, how firm, how sacred all appears!
How worthy an immortal round of years!

264

Yet all must drop, as autumn's sickliest grain,
And earth and firmament be sought in vain;
The tract forgot where constellations shone,
Or where the Stuarts fill'd an awful throne:
Time shall be slain, all Nature be destroy'd,
Nor leave an atom in the mighty void.

Sooner or later, in some future date,
(A dreadful secret in the book of fate!)
This hour, for aught all human wisdom knows,
Or when ten thousand harvests more have rose;
When scenes are changed on this revolving earth,
Old empires fall, and give new empires birth;
While other Bourbons rule in other lands,
And (if man's sin forbids not) other Annes;
While the still busy world is treading o'er
The paths they trod five thousand years before,
Thoughtless, as those who now life's mazes run,
Of earth dissolved, or an extinguish'd sun;
(Ye sublunary worlds, awake, awake!
Ye rulers of the nations, hear, and shake!)
Thick clouds of darkness shall arise on day,
In sudden night all earth's dominions lay;
Impetuous winds the scatter'd forests rend;
Eternal mountains, like their cedars, bend;
The valleys yawn, the troubled ocean roar,
And break the bondage of his wonted shore;
A sanguine stain the silver moon o'erspread;
Darkness the circle of the sun invade;
From inmost heaven incessant thunders roll,
And the strong echo bound from pole to pole.

When, lo, a mighty trump, one half conceal'd
In clouds, one half to mortal eye reveal'd,
Shall pour a dreadful note; the piercing call
Shall rattle in the centre of the ball;
The' extended circuit of creation shake,
The living die with fear, the dead awake.

O powerful blast! to which no equal sound
Did e'er the frighted ear of Nature wound,
Though rival clarions have been strain'd on high,
And kindled wars immortal through the sky;
Though God's whole enginery discharged, and all
The rebel angels bellow'd in their fall.

Have angels sinn'd? And shall not man beware?
How shall a son of earth decline the snare?

265

Not folded arms, and slackness of the mind,
Can promise for the safety of mankind:
None are supinely good; through care and pain,
And various arts, the steep ascent we gain.
This is the scene of combat, not of rest;
Man's is laborious happiness at best;
On this side death his dangers never cease;
His joys are joys of conquest, not of peace.

If then, obsequious to the will of fate,
And bending to the terms of human state,
When guilty joys invite us to their arms,
When beauty smiles, or grandeur spreads her charms,
The conscious soul would this great scene display,
Call down the' immortal hosts in dread array,
The trumpet sound, the Christian banner spread,
And raise from silent graves the trembling dead;
Such deep impression would the picture make,
No power on earth her firm resolve could shake;
Engaged with angels she would greatly stand,
And look regardless down on sea and land;
Not proffer'd worlds her ardour could restrain,
And Death might shake his threatening lance in vain!
Her certain conquest would endear the fight,
And danger serve but to exalt delight.

Instructed thus to shun the fatal spring
Whence flow the terrors of that day I sing,
More boldly we our labours may pursue,
And all the dreadful image set to view.

The sparkling eye, the sleek and painted breast,
The burnish'd scale, curl'd train, and rising crest,
All that is lovely in the noxious snake,
Provokes our fear, and bids us flee the brake:
The sting once drawn, his guiltless beauties rise
In pleasing lustre, and detain our eyes;
We view with joy what once did horror move,
And strong aversion softens into love.

Say, then, my Muse, whom dismal scenes delight,
Frequent at tombs, and in the realms of Night;
Say, melancholy maid, if bold to dare
The last extremes of terror and despair;
O say, what change on earth, what heart in man,
This blackest moment since the world began!

Ah mournful turn! The blissful Earth, who late
At leisure on her axle roll'd in state;

266

While thousand golden planets knew no rest,
Still onward in their circling journey press'd;
A grateful change of seasons some to bring,
And sweet vicissitude of fall and spring;
Some through vast oceans to conduct the keel,
And some those watery worlds to sink or swell;
Around her some, their splendours to display,
And gild her globe with tributary day:—
This world so great, of joy the bright abode,
Heaven's darling child, and favourite of her God,
Now looks an exile from her Father's care,
Deliver'd o'er to darkness and despair.
No sun in radiant glory shines on high;
No light, but from the terrors of the sky:
Fallen are her mountains, her famed rivers lost,
And all into a second chaos toss'd:
One universal ruin spreads abroad;
Nothing is safe beneath the throne of God.

Such, Earth, thy fate: what then canst thou afford
To comfort and support thy guilty lord?
Man, haughty lord of all beneath the moon,
How must he bend his soul's ambition down;
Prostrate, the reptile own, and disavow
His boasted stature and assuming brow;
Claim kindred with the clay, and curse his form,
That speaks distinction from his sister worm!
What dreadful pangs the trembling heart invade!
Lord, why dost Thou forsake whom Thou hast made?
Who can sustain Thy anger? who can stand
Beneath the terrors of Thy lifted hand?
It flies the reach of thought; O save me, Power
Of powers supreme, in that tremendous hour!
Thou who beneath the frown of Fate hast stood,
And in Thy dreadful agony sweat blood;
Thou, who for me, through every throbbing vein,
Hast felt the keenest edge of mortal pain;
Whom Death led captive through the realms below,
And taught those horrid mysteries of woe;
Defend me, O my God! O save me, Power
Of powers supreme, in that tremendous hour!

From east to west they fly, from pole to line,
Imploring shelter from the wrath Divine;
Beg flames to wrap, or whelming seas to sweep,
Or rocks to yawn, compassionately deep:

267

Seas cast the monster forth to meet his doom,
And rocks but prison up for wrath to come.

So fares a traitor to an earthly crown:
While death sits threatening in his prince's frown,
His heart's dismay'd; and now his fears command
To change his native for a distant land:
Swift orders fly, the king's severe decree
Stands in the channel, and locks up the sea;
The port he seeks, obedient to her lord,
Hurls back the rebel to his lifted sword.

But why this idle toil to paint that day,
This time elaborately thrown away?
Words all in vain pant after the distress,
The height of eloquence would make it less:
Heavens! how the good man trembles!—

And is there a Last Day? and must there come
A sure, a fix'd, inexorable doom?
Ambition, swell, and, thy proud sails to show,
Take all the winds that Vanity can blow;
Wealth, on a golden mountain blazing stand,
And reach an India forth in either hand;
Spread all thy purple clusters, tempting Vine,
And thou, more dreaded foe, bright Beauty, shine:
Shine all; in all your charms together rise;
That all, in all your charms, I may despise,
While I mount upward on a strong desire,
Borne, like Elijah, in a car of fire.

In hopes of glory to be quite involved!
To smile at death, to long to be dissolved!
From our decays a pleasure to receive,
And kindle into transport at a grave!
What equals this? And shall the victor now
Boast the proud laurels on his loaded brow?
Religion! O thou cherub, heavenly bright!
O joys unmix'd, and fathomless delight!
Thou, thou art all; nor find I in the whole
Creation aught but God and my own soul.

For ever then, my soul, thy God adore,
Nor let the brute creation praise Him more.
Shall things inanimate my conduct blame,
And flush my conscious cheek with spreading shame?
They all for Him pursue or quit their end;
The mounting flames their burning power suspend;

268

In solid heaps the' unfrozen billows stand,
To rest and silence awed by His command:
Nay, the dire monsters that infest the flood,
By nature dreadful, and athirst for blood,
His will can calm, their savage tempers bind,
And turn to mild protectors of mankind.
Did not the prophet this great truth maintain
In the deep chambers of the gloomy main,
When darkness round him all her horrors spread,
And the loud ocean bellow'd o'er his head?

When now the thunder roars, the lightning flies,
And all the warring winds tumultuous rise;
When now the foaming surges, toss'd on high,
Disclose the sands beneath, and touch the sky;
When death draws near, the mariners, aghast,
Look back with terror on their actions past;
Their courage sickens into deep dismay,
Their hearts, through fear and anguish, melt away;
Nor tears, nor prayers, the tempest can appease.
Now they devote their treasure to the seas;
Unload their shatter'd bark, though richly fraught,
And think the hopes of life are cheaply bought
With gems and gold: but O, the storm so high,
Nor gems nor gold the hopes of life can buy!

The trembling prophet then, themselves to save,
They headlong plunge into the briny wave.
Down he descends, and, booming o'er his head,
The billows close; he's number'd with the dead.
(Hear, O ye just! attend, ye virtuous few!
And the bright paths of piety pursue!)
Lo! the great Ruler of the world, from high,
Looks smiling down with a propitious eye,
Covers His servant with His gracious hand,
And bids tempestuous nature silent stand;
Commands the peaceful waters to give place,
Or kindly fold him in a soft embrace:
He bridles-in the monsters of the deep,
The bridled monsters awful distance keep;
Forget their hunger, while they view their prey,
And guiltless gaze, and round the stranger play.

But still arise new wonders. Nature's Lord
Sends forth into the deep His powerful word,
And calls the great leviathan: the great
Leviathan attends in all his state;

269

Exults for joy, and, with a mighty bound,
Makes the sea shake, and heaven and earth resound;
Blackens the waters with the rising sand,
And drives vast billows to the distant land.

As yawns an earthquake, when imprison'd air
Struggles for vent, and lays the centre bare,
The whale expands his jaws' enormous size:
The prophet views the cavern with surprise;
Measures his monstrous teeth, afar descried,
And rolls his wondering eyes from side to side;
Then takes possession of the spacious seat,
And sails secure within the dark retreat.

Now is he pleased the northern blast to hear,
And hangs on liquid mountains, void of fear;
Or falls immersed into the depths below,
Where the dead silent waters never flow;
To the foundations of the hills convey'd,
Dwells in the shelving mountain's dreadful shade:
Where plummet never reach'd, he draws his breath,
And glides serenely through the paths of death.

Two wondrous days and nights, through coral groves,
Through labyrinths of rocks and sands, he roves:
When the third morning with its level rays
The mountains gilds, and on the billows plays,
It sees the king of waters rise and pour
His sacred guest uninjured on the shore:
A type of that great blessing, which the Muse
In her next labour ardently pursues.

The Duke of Marlborough.

BOOK II.

Εκ γαιης ελπιζομεν ες φαος ελθειν
Λειψαν' αποιχομενων: οπισω δε θεοι τελεθονται.
—Phocyl.

“We hope that the departed will rise again from the dust; after which, like the gods, they will be immortal.”

Now man awakes, and from his silent bed,
Where he has slept for ages, lifts his head;
Shakes off the slumber of ten thousand years,
And on the borders of new worlds appears.
Whate'er the bold, the rash adventure cost,
In wide Eternity I dare be lost.

270

The Muse is wont in narrow bounds to sing,
To teach the swain, or celebrate the king.
I grasp the whole, no more to parts confined,
I lift my voice, and sing to human kind:
I sing to men and angels; angels join,
While such the theme, their sacred songs with mine.

Again the trumpet's intermitted sound
Rolls the wide circuit of creation round,
An universal concourse to prepare
Of all that ever breathed the vital air;
In some wide field, which active whirlwinds sweep,
Drive cities, forests, mountains to the deep,
To smooth and lengthen out the' unbounded space,
And spread an area for all human race.

Now monuments prove faithful to their trust,
And render back their long committed dust.
Now charnels rattle; scatter'd limbs, and all
The various bones, obsequious to the call,
Self-moved, advance; the neck perhaps to meet
The distant head; the distant legs, the feet.
Dreadful to view, see through the dusky sky
Fragments of bodies in confusion fly,
To distant regions journeying, there to claim
Deserted members, and complete the frame.

When the world bow'd to Rome's almighty sword,
Rome bow'd to Pompey, and confess'd her lord.
Yet, one day lost, this deity below
Became the scorn and pity of his foe.
His blood a traitor's sacrifice was made,
And smoked indignant on a ruffian's blade.
No trumpet's sound, no gasping army's yell,
Bid, with due horror, his great soul farewell.
Obscure his fall: all weltering in his gore,
His trunk was cast to perish on the shore!
While Julius frown'd the bloody monster dead,
Who brought the world in his great rival's head.
This sever'd head and trunk shall join once more,
Though realms now rise between, and oceans roar.
The trumpet's sound each vagrant-mote shall hear,
Or fix'd in earth, or if afloat in air,
Obey the signal wafted in the wind,
And not one sleeping atom lag behind.

So swarming bees, that, on a summer's day,
In airy rings and wild meanders play,

271

Charm'd with the brasen sound, their wanderings end,
And, gently circling, on a bough descend.

The body thus renew'd, the conscious soul,
Which has perhaps been fluttering near the pole,
Or midst the burning planets wondering stray'd,
Or hover'd o'er where her pale corpse was laid;
Or rather coasted on her final state,
And fear'd or wish'd for her appointed fate:
This soul, returning with a constant flame,
Now weds for ever her immortal frame.
Life, which ran down before, so high is wound,
The springs maintain an everlasting round.

Thus a frail model of the work design'd
First takes a copy of the builder's mind,
Before the structure firm with lasting oak,
And marble bowels of the solid rock,
Turns the strong arch, and bids the columns rise,
And bear the lofty palace to the skies;
The wrongs of Time enabled to surpass,
With bars of adamant, and ribs of brass.

That ancient, sacred, and illustrious dome,
Where soon or late fair Albion's heroes come,
From camps and courts, though great, or wise, or just,
To feed the worm, and moulder into dust;
That solemn mansion of the royal dead,
Where passing slaves o'er sleeping monarchs tread,
Now populous o'erflows: a numerous race
Of rising kings fill all the' extended space.
A life well-spent, not the victorious sword,
Awards the crown, and styles the greater lord.

Nor monuments alone, and burial earth,
Labour with man to this his second birth;
But where gay palaces in pomp arise,
And gilded theatres invade the skies,
Nations shall wake, whose unrespected bones
Support the pride of their luxurious sons.
The most magnificent and costly dome
Is but an upper chamber to a tomb.
No spot on earth but has supplied a grave,
And human skulls the spacious ocean pave.
All's full of man; and at this dreadful turn,
The swarm shall issue, and the hive shall burn.

272

Not all at once, nor in like manner, rise:
Some lift with pain their slow unwilling eyes;
Shrink backward from the terror of the light,
And bless the grave, and call for lasting night.
Others, whose long-attempted virtue stood
Fix'd as a rock, and broke the rushing flood;
Whose firm resolve nor beauty could melt down,
Nor raging tyrants from their posture frown:—
Such, in this day of horrors, shall be seen
To face the thunders with a godlike mien:
The planets drop, their thoughts are fix'd above;
The centre shakes, their hearts disdain to move:
An earth dissolving, and a heaven thrown wide,
A yawning gulf, and fiends on every side,
Serene they view, impatient of delay,
And bless the dawn of everlasting day.

Here greatness prostrate falls; there strength gives place:
Here lazars smile; there beauty hides her face.
Christians, and Jews, and Turks, and Pagans stand,
A blended throng, one undistinguish'd band.
Some who, perhaps, by mutual wounds expired,
With zeal for their distinct persuasions fired,
In mutual friendship their long slumber break,
And hand in hand their Saviour's love partake.

But none are flush'd with brighter joy, or, warm
With juster confidence, enjoy the storm,
Than those whose pious bounties, unconfined,
Have made them public fathers of mankind.
In that illustrious rank, what shining light
With such distinguish'd glory fills my sight?
Bend down, my grateful Muse, that homage show
Which to such worthies thou art proud to owe.
Wykeham, Fox, Chicheley! hail, illustrious names,
Who to far-distant times dispense your beams!
Beneath your shades, and near your crystal springs,
I first presumed to touch the trembling strings.
All hail, thrice-honour'd! 'Twas your great renown
To bless a people, and oblige a crown.
And now you rise, eternally to shine,
Eternally to drink the rays Divine.

273

Indulgent God! O how shall mortal raise
His soul to due returns of grateful praise,
For bounty so profuse to human kind,
Thy wondrous gift of an eternal mind?
Shall I, who, some few years ago, was less
Than worm, or mite, or shadow can express,—
Was nothing; shall I live, when every fire
And every star shall languish and expire?
When earth's no more, shall I survive above,
And through the radiant files of angels move?
Or, as before the throne of God I stand,
See new worlds rolling from His spacious hand,
Where our adventures shall perhaps be taught,
As we now tell how Michael sung or fought?
All that has being in full concert join,
And celebrate the depths of Love Divine!

But O! before this blissful state, before
The' aspiring soul this wondrous height can soar,
The Judge, descending, thunders from afar,
And all mankind is summon'd to the bar.

This mighty scene I next presume to draw:
Attend, great Anna, with religious awe.
Expect not here the known successful arts
To win attention, and command our hearts:
Fiction, be far away; let no machine
Descending here, no fabled God, be seen:
Behold the God of gods indeed descend,
And worlds unnumber'd His approach attend!

Lo! the wide theatre, whose ample space
Must entertain the whole of human race,
At Heaven's all-powerful edict is prepared,
And fenced around with an immortal guard.
Tribes, provinces, dominions, worlds o'erflow
The mighty plain, and deluge all below:
And every age and nation pours along;
Nimrod and Bourbon mingle in the throng;
Adam salutes his youngest son; no sign
Of all those ages which their births disjoin.

How empty learning, and how vain is art,
But as it mends the life, and guides the heart!
What volumes have been swell'd, what time been spent,
To fix a hero's birth-day or descent!
What joy must it now yield, what rapture raise,
To see the glorious race of ancient days!

274

To greet those worthies who perhaps have stood
Illustrious on record before the flood!
Alas! a nearer care your soul demands,
Cæsar unnoted in your presence stands.

How vast the concourse! not in number more
The waves that break on the resounding shore,
The leaves that tremble in the shady grove,
The lamps that gild the spangled vault above.
Those overwhelming armies, whose command
Said to one empire, “Fall;” another, “Stand;”
Whose rear lay wrapp'd in night, while breaking dawn
Roused the broad front, and call'd the battle on:
Great Xerxes' world in arms, proud Cannæ's field,
Where Carthage taught victorious Rome to yield;
(Another blow had broke the Fates' decree,
And earth had wanted her fourth monarchy;)
Immortal Blenheim, famed Ramillia's host:—
They all are here, and here they all are lost:
Their millions swell to be discern'd in vain,
Lost as a billow in the' unbounded main.

This echoing voice now rends the yielding air,
For judgment, judgment, sons of men, prepare!
Earth shakes anew; I hear her groans profound;
And hell through all her trembling realms resound.

Whoe'er thou art, thou greatest power of earth,
Bless'd with most equal planets at thy birth:
Whose valour drew the most successful sword,
Most realms united in one common lord;
Who, on the day of triumph, saidst, “Be Thine
The skies, Jehovah: all this world is mine:”
Dare not to lift thine eye.—Alas! my Muse,
How art thou lost! what numbers canst thou choose?

A sudden blush inflames the waving sky,
And now the crimson curtains open fly;
Lo! far within, and far above all height,
Where heaven's great Sovereign reigns in worlds of light;
Whence Nature He informs, and, with one ray
Shot from His eye, does all her works survey,
Creates, supports, confounds! where time, and place,
Matter, and form, and fortune, life, and grace,
Wait humbly at the footstool of their God,
And move obedient at His awful nod;
Whence He beholds us vagrant emmets crawl
At random on this air-suspended ball:

275

(Speck of creation!) if He pour one breath,
The bubble breaks, and 'tis eternal death.

Thence issuing I behold, (but mortal sight
Sustains not such a rushing sea of light!)
I see, on an empyreal flying throne
Sublimely raised, Heaven's everlasting Son;
Crown'd with that majesty which form'd the world,
And the grand rebel flaming downward hurl'd
Virtue, Dominion, Praise, Omnipotence,
Support the train of their triumphant Prince.
A zone, beyond the thought of angels bright,
Around Him, like the zodiac, winds its light.
Night shades the solemn arches of His brows,
And in His cheek the purple morning glows.
Where'er serene He turns propitious eyes,
Or we expect, or find, a Paradise:
But if resentment reddens their mild beams,
The Eden kindles, and the world's in flames.
On one hand, Knowledge shines in purest light;
On one, the sword of Justice, fiercely bright.
Now bend the knee in sport, present the reed;
Now tell the scourged impostor He shall bleed!

Thus glorious through the courts of heaven the Source
Of life and death eternal bends His course;
Loud thunders round Him roll, and lightnings play;
The' angelic host is ranged in bright array:
Some touch the string, some strike the sounding shell,
And mingling voices in rich concert swell;
Voices seraphic! bless'd with such a strain,
Could Satan hear, he were a god again.

Triumphant King of Glory! Soul of Bliss!
What a stupendous turn of fate is this!
O whither art thou raised above the scorn
And indigence of Him in Bethlem born!
A needless, helpless, unaccounted guest,
And but a second to the fodder'd beast!
How changed from Him who, meekly prostrate laid,
Vouchsafed to wash the feet Himself had made!
From Him who was betray'd, forsook, denied,
Wept, languish'd, pray'd, bled, thirsted, groan'd, and died;
Hung pierced and bare, insulted by the foe,
All heaven in tears above, earth unconcern'd below!

And was't enough to bid the sun retire?
Why did not Nature at Thy groan expire?

276

I see, I hear, I feel, the pangs Divine;
The world is vanish'd,—I am wholly Thine.

Mistaken Caiaphas! Ah! which blasphemed,—
Thou, or thy Prisoner? which shall be condemn'd?
Well mightst thou rend thy garments, well exclaim;
Deep are the horrors of eternal flame!
But God is good! 'Tis wondrous all! E'en He
Thou gavest to death, shame, torture, died for thee.

Now the descending triumph stops its flight
From earth full twice a planetary height.
There all the clouds, condensed, two columns raise
Distinct with orient veins, and golden blaze:
One fix'd on earth, and one in sea, and round
Its ample foot the swelling billows sound.
These an immeasurable arch support,
The grand tribunal of this awful court.
Sheets of bright azure, from the purest sky,
Stream from the crystal arch, and round the columns fly.
Death, wrapp'd in chains, low at the basis lies,
And on the point of his own arrow dies.

Here high-enthroned the' eternal Judge is placed,
With all the grandeur of His Godhead graced;
Stars on His robes in beauteous order meet,
And the sun burns beneath His awful feet.

Now an archangel eminently bright,
From off his silver staff of wondrous height,
Unfurls the Christian flag, which waving flies,
And shuts and opens more than half the skies:
The cross so strong a red, it sheds a stain,
Where'er it floats, on earth, and air, and main;
Flushes the hill, and sets on fire the wood,
And turns the deep-dyed ocean into blood.

O formidable Glory! dreadful bright!
Refulgent torture to the guilty sight.
Ah, turn, unwary Muse, nor dare reveal
What horrid thoughts with the polluted dwell.
Say not, (to make the Sun shrink in his beam,)
Dare not affirm, they wish it all a dream;
Wish, or their souls may with their limbs decay,
Or God be spoil'd of His eternal sway.
But rather, if thou know'st the means, unfold
How they with transport might the scene behold.

Ah how, but by repentance, by a mind
Quick and severe its own offence to find;

277

By tears, and groans, and never-ceasing care,
And all the pious violence of prayer?
Thus then, with fervency till now unknown,
I cast my heart before the' eternal throne,
In this great temple, which the skies surround,
For homage to its Lord a narrow bound:—

“O Thou! whose balance does the mountains weigh,
Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey,
Whose breath can turn those watery worlds to flame,
That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame;
Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls,
And on the Boundless of Thy goodness calls.

“O give the winds all past offence to sweep,
To scatter wide, or bury in the deep!
Thy power, my weakness, may I ever see,
And wholly dedicate my soul to Thee.
Reign o'er my will; my passions ebb and flow
At Thy command, nor human motive know.
If anger boil, let anger be my praise,
And sin the graceful indignation raise.
My love be warm to succour the distress'd,
And lift the burden from the soul oppress'd.
O may my understanding ever read
This glorious volume, which Thy wisdom made!
Who decks the maiden Spring with flowery pride?
Who calls forth Summer, like a sparkling bride?
Who joys the mother Autumn's bed to crown,
And bids old Winter lay her honours down?
Not the great Ottoman, or greater Czar,
Not Europe's arbitress of peace and war.
May sea and land, and earth and heaven, be join'd,
To bring the' eternal Author to my mind!
When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll,
May thoughts of Thy dread vengeance shake my soul!
When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine,
Adore, my heart, the Majesty Divine!

“Through every scene of life, or peace or war,
Plenty or want, Thy glory be my care!
Shine we in arms? or sing beneath our vine?
Thine is the vintage, and the conquest Thine:
Thy pleasure points the shaft, and bends the bow;
The cluster blasts, or bids it brightly glow:
'Tis Thou that lead'st our powerful armies forth,
And giv'st great Anne Thy sceptre o'er the north.

278

“Grant I may ever, at the morning ray,
Open with prayer the consecrated day;
Tune Thy great praise, and bid my soul arise,
And with the mounting sun ascend the skies:
As that advances, let my zeal improve,
And glow with ardour of consummate love;
Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun
My endless worship shall be still begun.

“And O! permit the gloom of solemn night
To sacred thought may forcibly invite.
When this world's shut, and awful planets rise,
Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies;
Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight,
And show all nature in a milder light;
How every boisterous thought in calms subsides!
How the smooth'd spirit into goodness glides!
O how Divine! to tread the Milky Way,
To the bright palace of the Lord of Day;
His court admire, or for His favour sue,
Or leagues of friendship with His saints renew;
Pleased to look down, and see the world asleep,
While I long vigils to its Founder keep!

“Canst Thou not shake the centre? O control,
Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul!
Thou, who canst still the raging of the flood,
Restrain the various tumults of my blood;
Teach me, with equal firmness, to sustain
Alluring pleasure, and assaulting pain.
O may I pant for Thee in each desire!
And with strong faith foment the holy fire!
Stretch out my soul in hope, and grasp the prize
Which in Eternity's deep bosom lies!
At the great day of recompence behold,
Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold!
Then, wafted upward to the blissful seat,
From age to age my grateful song repeat;
My Light, my Life, my God, my Saviour see,
And rival angels in the praise of Thee!”

Westminster Abbey.

Founders of New-College, Corpus Christi, and All-Souls, in Oxford; of all which the Author was a member.

279

BOOK III.

Esse quoque in fatis reminiscitur, affore tempus,
Quo mare, quo tellus, correptaque regia cœli
Ardeat; et mundi moles operosa laboret.
—Ovid. Met. lib. i. 256.

The book unfolding, the resplendent seat
Of saints and angels, the tremendous fate
Of guilty souls, the gloomy realms of woe,
And all the horrors of the world below,
I next presume to sing. What yet remains
Demands my last, but most exalted, strains.
And let the Muse or now affect the sky,
Or in inglorious shades for ever lie.
She kindles, she's inflamed so near the goal;
She mounts, she gains upon the starry pole;
The world grows less as she pursues her flight,
And the sun darkens to her distant sight.
Heaven, opening, all its sacred pomp displays,
And overwhelms her with the rushing blaze!
The triumph rings! archangels shout around!
And echoing Nature lengthens out the sound!

Ten thousand trumpets now at once advance;
Now deepest silence lulls the vast expanse;
So deep the silence, and so strong the blast,
As Nature died when she had groan'd her last.
Nor man nor angel moves: the Judge on high
Looks round, and with His glory fills the sky:
Then on the fatal book His hand He lays,
Which high to view supporting seraphs raise;
In solemn form the rituals are prepared,
The seal is broken, and a groan is heard.
And thou, my soul, (O fall to sudden prayer,
And let the thought sink deep!) shalt thou be there?

See on the left, (for by the great command
The throng divided falls on either hand,)
How weak, how pale, how haggard, how obscene!
What more than death in every face and mien!
With what distress, and glarings of affright,
They shock the heart, and turn away the sight!
In gloomy orbs their trembling eye-balls roll,
And tell the horrid secrets of the soul.

280

Each gesture mourns, each look is black with care,
And every groan is loaden with despair.
Reader, if guilty, spare the Muse, and find
A truer image pictured in thy mind.

Shouldst thou behold thy brother, father, wife,
And all the soft companions of thy life,
Whose blended interests levell'd at one aim,
Whose mix'd desires sent up one common flame,
Divided far; thy wretched self alone
Cast on the left, of all whom thou hast known;
How would it wound! What millions wouldst thou give
For one more trial, one day more to live!
Flung back in time an hour, a moment's space,
To grasp with eagerness the means of grace;
Contend for mercy with a pious rage,
And in that moment to redeem an age!
Drive back the tide, suspend a storm in air,
Arrest the sun; but still of this despair.

Mark, on the right, how amiable a grace!
Their Maker's image fresh in every face!
What purple bloom my ravish'd soul admires,
And their eyes sparkling with immortal fires!
Triumphant beauty! charms that rise above
This world, and in bless'd angels kindle love!
To the great Judge with holy pride they turn,
And dare behold the' Almighty's anger burn;
Its flash sustain, against its terror rise,
And on the dread tribunal fix their eyes.
Are these the forms that moulder'd in the dust?
O the transcendent glory of the just!
Yet still some thin remains of fear and doubt
The' infected brightness of their joy pollute.

Thus the chaste bridegroom, when the priest draws nigh,
Beholds his blessing with a trembling eye,
Feels doubtful passions throb in every vein,
And in his cheeks are mingled joy and pain,
Lest still some intervening chance should rise,
Leap forth at once, and snatch the golden prize;
Inflame his woe by bringing it so late,
And stab him in the crisis of his fate.

Since Adam's family, from first to last,
Now into one distinct survey is cast;
Look round, vain-glorious Muse, and you whoe'er
Devote yourselves to Fame, and think her fair;

281

Look round, and seek the lights of human race,
Whose shining acts Time's brightest annals grace;
Who founded sects; crowns conquer'd, or resign'd;
Gave names to nations, or famed empires join'd;
Who raised the vale, and laid the mountain low,
And taught obedient rivers where to flow;
Who with vast fleets, as with a mighty chain,
Could bind the madness of the roaring main:
All lost! all undistinguish'd! nowhere found!
How will this truth in Bourbon's palace sound?

That hour, on which the' Almighty King on high
From all eternity has fix'd His eye,
Whether His right hand favour'd, or annoy'd,
Continued, alter'd, threaten'd, or destroy'd;
Southern or eastern sceptre downward hurl'd,
Gave north or west dominion o'er the world;
The point of time, for which the world was built,
For which the blood of God Himself was spilt,
That dreadful moment is arrived.

Aloft, the seats of bliss their pomp display,
Brighter than brightness this distinguish'd day;
Less glorious, when of old the' eternal Son
From realms of night return'd with trophies won;
Through heaven's high gates when He triumphant rode,
And shouting angels hail'd the victor God.
Horrors, beneath, darkness in darkness, hell
Of hell, where torments behind torments dwell;
A furnace formidable, deep, and wide,
O'er-boiling with a mad sulphureous tide,
Expands its jaws, most dreadful to survey,
And roars outrageous for the destined prey.
The sons of light scarce unappall'd look down,
And nearer press Heaven's everlasting throne.

Such is the scene; and one short moment's space
Concludes the hopes and fears of human race.
Proceed who dares!—I tremble as I write;
The whole creation swims before my sight:
I see, I see, the Judge's frowning brow:
Say not, 'tis distant; I behold it now.
I faint, my tardy blood forgets to flow,
My soul recoils at the stupendous woe;
That woe, those pangs, which from the guilty breast,
In these, or words like these, shall be express'd:—

282

“Who burst the barriers of my peaceful grave?
Ah, cruel Death! that would no longer save,
But grudged me e'en that narrow dark abode,
And cast me out into the wrath of God;
Where shrieks, the roaring flame, the rattling chain,
And all the dreadful eloquence of pain,
Our only song; black fire's malignant light,
The sole refreshment of the blasted sight.

“Must all those powers Heaven gave me to supply
My soul with pleasure, and bring-in my joy,
Rise up in arms against me, join the foe,
Sense, Reason, Memory, increase my woe?
And shall my voice, ordain'd on hymns to dwell,
Corrupt to groans, and blow the fires of hell?
O! must I look with terror on my gain,
And with existence only measure pain?
What! no reprieve, no least indulgence given,
No beam of hope from any point of heaven?
Ah, Mercy! Mercy! art thou dead above?
Is love extinguish'd in the Source of Love?

“Bold that I am! did Heaven stoop down to hell?
The' expiring Lord of Life my ransom seal?
Have not I been industrious to provoke?
From His embraces obstinately broke?
Pursued, and panted for His mortal hate,
Earn'd my destruction, labour'd out my fate?
And dare I on extinguish'd love exclaim?
Take, take full vengeance, rouse the slackening flame;
Just is my lot—but O! must it transcend
The reach of time, despair a distant end?
With dreadful growth shoot forward, and arise,
Where Thought can't follow, and bold Fancy dies?

“NEVER! Where falls the soul at that dread sound?
Down an abyss how dark, and how profound!
Down, down, (I still am falling,—horrid pain!)
Ten thousand thousand fathoms still remain;
My plunge but still begun.—And this for sin?
Could I offend, if I had never been,
But still increased the senseless happy mass,
Flow'd in the stream, or shiver'd in the grass?

“Father of Mercies! why from silent earth
Didst Thou awake, and curse me into birth?
Tear me from quiet, ravish me from night,
And make a thankless present of Thy light?

283

Push into being a reverse of Thee,
And animate a clod with misery?

“The beasts are happy; they come forth, and keep
Short watch on earth, and then lie down to sleep.
Pain is for man; and O! how vast a pain,
For crimes which made the Godhead bleed in vain,
Annull'd His groans, as far as in them lay,
And flung His agonies and death away!
As our dire punishment for ever strong,
Our constitution too for ever young;
Cursed with returns of vigour, still the same,
Powerful to bear and satisfy the flame;
Still to be caught, and still to be pursued;
To perish still, and still to be renew'd!

“And this, my Help! my God! at Thy decree?
Nature is changed, and hell should succour me.
And canst Thou, then, look down from perfect bliss,
And see me plunging in the dark abyss?
Calling Thee Father in a sea of fire?
Or pouring blasphemies at Thy desire?
With mortals' anguish wilt Thou raise Thy name,
And by my pangs Omnipotence proclaim?

“Thou, who canst toss the planets to and fro,
Contract not Thy great vengeance to my woe;
Crush worlds; in hotter flames fallen angels lay:
On me Almighty wrath is cast away.
Call back Thy thunders, Lord, hold-in Thy rage,
Nor with a speck of wretchedness engage:
Forget me quite, nor stoop a worm to blame;
But lose me in the greatness of Thy name.
Thou art all love, all mercy, all Divine;
And shall I make those glories cease to shine?
Shall sinful man grow great by his offence,
And from its course turn back Omnipotence?

“Forbid it! and O! grant, great God, at least
This one, this slender, almost no request:
When I have wept a thousand lives away,
When torment is grown weary of its prey,
When I have raved ten thousand years in fire,
Ten thousand thousand, let me then expire.”

Deep anguish, but too late! The hopeless soul,
Bound to the bottom of the burning pool,
Though loath, and ever loud blaspheming, owns,
He's justly doom'd to pour eternal groans;

284

Enclosed with horrors, and transfix'd with pain,
Rolling in vengeance, struggling with his chain;
To talk to fiery tempests; to implore
The raging flame to give its burnings o'er;
To toss, to writhe, to pant beneath his load,
And bear the weight of an offended God.

The favour'd of their Judge in triumph move
To take possession of their thrones above;
Satan's accursed desertion to supply,
And fill the vacant stations of the sky;
Again to kindle long-extinguish'd rays,
And with new lights dilate the heavenly blaze;
To crop the roses of immortal youth,
And drink the fountain-head of sacred truth;
To swim in seas of bliss, to strike the string,
And lift the voice to their Almighty King;
To lose eternity in grateful lays,
And fill heaven's wide circumference with praise.

But I attempt the wondrous height in vain,
And leave unfinish'd the too lofty strain;
What boldly I begin, let others end;
My strength exhausted, fainting I descend,
And choose a less, but no ignoble, theme,—
Dissolving elements, and worlds in flame.

The fatal period, the great hour, is come,
And Nature shrinks at her approaching doom;
Loud peals of thunder give the sign, and all
Heaven's terrors in array surround the ball;
Sharp lightnings with the meteors' blaze conspire,
And, darted downward, set the world on fire;
Black rising clouds the thicken'd ether choke,
And spiry flames dart through the rolling smoke,
With keen vibrations cut the sullen night,
And strike the darken'd sky with dreadful light;
From heaven's four regions, with immortal force,
Angels drive-on the wind's impetuous course
To' enrage the flame: it spreads, it soars on high,
Swells in the storm, and billows through the sky:
Here winding pyramids of fire ascend,
Cities and deserts in one ruin blend;
Here blazing volumes, wafted, overwhelm
The spacious face of a far-distant realm;
There, undermined, down rush eternal hills,
The neighbouring vales the vast destruction fills.

285

Hear'st thou that dreadful crack? that sound which broke
Like peals of thunder, and the centre shook?
What wonders must that groan of Nature tell!
Olympus there, and mightier Atlas, fell;
Which seem'd above the reach of fate to stand,
A towering monument of God's right hand;
Now dust and smoke, whose brow so lately spread
O'er shelter'd countries its diffusive shade.

Show me that celebrated spot, where all
The various rulers of the sever'd ball
Have humbly sought wealth, honour, and redress,
That land which Heaven seem'd diligent to bless,
Once call'd Britannia: can her glories end?
And can't surrounding seas her realms defend?
Alas! in flames behold surrounding seas!
Like oil, their waters but augment the blaze.

Some angel say, Where ran proud Asia's bound?
Or where with fruits was fair Europa crown'd?
Where stretch'd waste Libya? Where did India's store
Sparkle in diamonds, and her golden ore?
Each lost in each, their mingling kingdoms glow,
And all, dissolved, one fiery deluge flow:
Thus earth's contending monarchies are join'd,
And a full period of ambition find.

And now whate'er or swims, or walks, or flies,
Inhabitants of sea, or earth, or skies;
All on whom Adam's wisdom fix'd a name;
All plunge and perish in the conquering flame.

This globe alone would but defraud the fire,
Starve its devouring rage: the flakes aspire,
And catch the clouds, and make the heavens their prey;
The sun, the moon, the stars, all melt away;
All, all is lost; no monument, no sign,
Where once so proudly blazed the gay machine.
So bubbles on the foaming stream expire,
So sparks that scatter from the kindling fire.
The devastations of one dreadful hour
The great Creator's six days' work devour.
A mighty, mighty ruin! yet one soul
Has more to boast, and far outweighs the whole;
Exalted in superior excellence,
Casts down to nothing such a vast expense.
Have you not seen the' eternal mountains nod,
An earth dissolving, a descending God?

286

What strange surprises through all nature ran!
For whom these revolutions, but for man?
For him, Omnipotence new measures takes,
For him, through all eternity awakes;
Pours on him gifts sufficient to supply
Heaven's loss, and with fresh glories fill the sky.

Think deeply then, O man, how great thou art;
Pay thyself homage with a trembling heart.
What angels guard, no longer dare neglect;
Slighting thyself, affront not God's respect.
Enter the sacred temple of thy breast,
And gaze, and wander there, a ravish'd guest;
Gaze on those hidden treasures thou shalt find,
Wander through all the glories of thy mind.
Of perfect knowledge, see, the dawning light
Foretells a noon most exquisitely bright!
Here springs of endless joy are breaking forth!
There buds the promise of celestial worth!
Worth, which must ripen in a happier clime,
And brighter sun, beyond the bounds of time.
Thou, minor, canst not guess thy vast estate,
What stores, on foreign coasts, thy landing wait:
Lose not thy claim: let virtue's path be trod;
Thus glad all heaven, and please that bounteous God,
Who, to light thee to pleasures, hung on high
Yon radiant orb, proud regent of the sky;
That service done, its beams shall fade away,
And God shine forth in one eternal day.

END OF THE LAST DAY.

VERSES TO THE AUTHOR.

Now let the Atheist tremble; thou alone
Canst bid his conscious heart the Godhead own.
Whom shalt thou not reform? O, thou hast seen
How God descends to judge the souls of men.
Thou heard'st the sentence how the guilty mourn,
Driven out from God, and never to return.

Yet more, behold ten thousand thunders fall,
And sudden vengeance wrap the flaming ball:

287

When Nature sunk, when every bolt was hurl'd,
Thou saw'st the boundless ruins of the world.

When guilty Sodom felt the burning rain,
And sulphur fell on the devoted plain,
The patriarch thus, the fiery tempest past,
With pious horror view'd the desert waste;
The restless smoke still waved its curls around,
For ever rising from the glowing ground.

But tell me, O! what heavenly pleasure tell,
To think so greatly, and describe so well!
How wast thou pleased the wondrous theme to try,
And find the thought of man could rise so high,
Beyond this world the labour to pursue,
And open all eternity to view?

But thou art best delighted to rehearse
Heaven's holy dictates in exalted verse.
O, thou hast power the harden'd heart to warm,
To grieve, to raise, to terrify, to charm;
To fix the soul on God; to teach the mind
To know the dignity of human-kind;
By stricter rules well-govern'd life to scan,
And practise o'er the angel in the man.

Magd. Coll. Oxon. T. Warton.

TO A LADY, WITH “THE LAST DAY.”

Madam,

Here sacred truths, in lofty numbers told,
The prospect of a future state unfold,
The realms of night to mortal view display,
And the glad regions of eternal day.
This daring author scorns by vulgar ways
Of guilty wit to merit worthless praise.
Full of her glorious theme, his towering Muse,
With generous zeal, a nobler fame pursues:
Religion's cause her ravish'd heart inspires,
And with a thousand bright ideas fires;
Transports her quick, impatient, piercing eye,
O'er the strait limits of mortality,
To boundless orbs, and bids her fearless soar
Where only Milton gain'd renown before;
Where various scenes alternately excite
Amazement, pity, terror, and delight.

288

Thus did the Muses sing in early times,
Ere skill'd to flatter vice, and varnish crimes:
Their lyres were tuned to virtuous songs alone,
And the chaste poet, and the priest, were one.
But now, forgetful of their infant state,
They soothe the wanton pleasures of the great,
And, from the press and the licentious stage,
With luscious poison taint the thoughtless age;
Deceitful charms attract our wondering eyes,
And specious ruin unsuspected lies.
So the rich soil of India's blooming shores,
Adorn'd with lavish Nature's choicest stores,
Where serpents lurk, by flowers conceal'd from sight,
Hides fatal danger under gay delight.

These purer thoughts, from gross alloys refined,
With heavenly raptures elevate the mind:
Not framed to raise a giddy, short-lived joy,
Whose false allurements, while they please, destroy;
But bliss resembling that of saints above,
Sprung from the vision of the' Almighty Love;
Firm, solid bliss, for ever great and new;
The more 'tis known, the more admired, like you;
Like you, fair nymph, in whom united meet
Endearing sweetness, unaffected wit,
And all the glories of your sparkling race,
While inward virtues heighten every grace.
By these secured, you will with pleasure read
“Of future judgment, and the rising dead;
Of time's grand period, heaven and earth o'erthrown,
And gasping Nature's last tremendous groan.”
These, when the stars and sun shall be no more,
Shall beauty to your ravaged form restore:
Then shall you shine with an immortal ray,
Improved by death, and brighten'd by decay.

Pemb. Coll. Oxon. T. Tristram.

TO THE AUTHOR, ON HIS “LAST DAY” AND “UNIVERSAL PASSION.”

And must it be as thou hast sung,
Celestial bard, seraphic Young?
Will there no trace, no point be found
Of all this spacious glorious round?

289

Yon lamps of light,—must they decay?
On Nature's self Destruction prey?
Then Fame, the most immortal thing
E'en thou canst hope, is on the wing.
Shall Newton's system be admired
When time and motion are expired?
Shall souls be curious to explore
Who ruled an orb that is no more?
Or shall they quote the pictured age
From Pope's and thy corrective page,
When Vice and Virtue lose their name
In deathless joy or endless shame?
While wears away the grand machine,
The works of genius shall be seen:
Beyond, what laurels can there be
For Homer, Horace, Pope, or thee?
Through life we chase, with fond pursuit,
What mocks our hope, like Sodom's fruit:
And, sure, thy plan was well design'd
To cure this madness of the mind;
First, beyond time our thoughts to raise;
Then lash our love of transient praise.
In both we own thy doctrine just;
And fame's a breath, and men are dust.

1736. J. Bancks.

SOME THOUGHTS ON READING MR. YOUNG'S POEM ON THE LAST DAY;

IN A LETTER TO MRS. ROWE.

BY ------ ------.

290

Madam,

A---k, August 25th, 1718.

There are sweet seasons when the mind puts on
More serious thoughts, and loves to be alone;
Collects herself, and proves the happy mean
'Twixt gloom and laughter, vanity and spleen;
Calls-in her salient airs, abates her fires;
Leaves to the' unthinking herd their vain desires;
Looks round, and smiles, and sighs, and so retires.
Retires!—but where? For, in such hours as these,
'Tis not mere sunshine, or mere shade, can please:
Too sad the grotto, and too vain the day;
The night too gloomy, and the sun too gay.
Where can a soul retire? What refuge find
To suit such delicacy of the mind?
Kind Heaven has bless'd me with a dear retreat,
Too tender for description, yet too great:
So soft the shade, so reverend the grove,
One must be all religion, or all love.
Here bending alders bending alders greet;
Obsequious branches mingle, as they meet:
Emblems of rarer friendship, how they're twined
Whom social bloom or social sufferings bind.
Maugre autumnal blasts and winter storms,
They grow and flourish in each other's arms.
So firm the' alliance, and the' embrace so true,
The stroke that parts them, must destroy them too;
While gently the young curling tendrils play,
Whisper and nod and beckon all the day.

'Tis here a solemn arch corrects the rays,
Fends off the gaudy lustre, and allays
And sweetly tempers the fierce noon-day blaze.
Such shades, methinks, e'en consecrate the ground,
And cast an awful sanctity around:
Only fair points of virgin-light appear,
Like sparkling diamonds glittering every where,
Shedding their milder glories down.—But stay;
Where am I roved? I only meant to say,—
Here I read Young, and thought on “the Last Day.”
Those hours, good God! those last important hours
Shoot to my heart, and rally all my powers:

291

Hope, fear, doubt, joy, dread, longing, and surprise,
Terror and gladness, all at once arise;
And with joint force, like blending torrents, roll,
And deluge every region of the soul.
Rocks rending, roaring oceans, shrieking fears,
Thunders, and bursting tombs, and shattering spheres,
Groans, noise, and rattling clangours, stun my ears.
I see the' establish'd hills about me quake;
I feel earth's fundamental pillars shake:
'Tis all dissolving; all, in flux, around
Looks hideous: rending earthquakes tear the ground.
The frightful shock in Britain first began,
And rent through all the kingdoms to Japan:
Clave through the tottering Alps; and, as it goes,
Whole chains of mountains at a run o'erthrows.
I see pale Nature, in her last distress,
Dying amidst the wreck of a dissolving universe.

Two mighty angels, clad in white array,
Just now commission'd to prepare the way
For the descending triumph, swiftly fly;
Tear down the gaudy hangings of the sky,
Which full six thousand years the heavens bore,
But now they must adorn the earth no more.

Through the wide fissure such new glories shone
As drown'd the feeble lustre of the sun.
A spacious chasm, as heaven's grand entrance wide,
With two vast folding-doors on either side,
Flew open nine degrees, full zenith high;
While both archangels with each other vie,
And each with crackling noise folds back the sky.
Lord! what a tide of fearful glory roll'd,
Burning and fierce, like seas of melted gold;
Pouring, at once, upon my feeble sight
Rivers of joy and cataracts of light!

Yet the sweet streaming splendour, issuing thence,
Strengthen'd and clarified my visive sense.
I dared to gaze; once more I gazed, and saw
Heaven's advance-guard their burning sabres draw.
Twelve legions these: behind them myriads more
Soft vehicles of brilliant ether wore;
Not arm'd for battle now; no burnish'd helms
Cast horrid gleams in these triumphant realms;
But all, like joyous victors, waved their never-fading palms.

292

Chariots of state in endless order stand,
All ready harness'd, waiting the command;
Each but one single gem, by art Divine
Polish'd and form'd; how exquisite they shine!
Beams shoot through beams; and crossing rays with rays
Blend subtly, and reflect a various blaze.
Dominions, powers, and chiefs sate next the throne,
Robed for the day, with all their coronets on;
Waiting the signal too, and longing to be gone.
Hark! the glad trumpet sounds: the' eternal King
Bids every saint touch every tender string;
And all the' harmonious seraphs soft recorders sing.
Anon a full-blown clarion swells the sound;
While stronger levets from the hills rebound,
And bolder martial airs the softer music drown'd.
Shouting, the armies move in dread array:
“A God! a God! Ye lightnings, clear the way;
And grace the' immense transactions of the day!”
He comes; but, O! His beams are too intense:
The' unsufferable glories drown my sense
In floods of overpowering excellence.
'Tis all unspeakable: no more I dare:
I stop my faltering, lame description there;
Nor dare to utter what I cannot bear.

Even Young himself recoils, and dreads to view
The' amazing scene he promised to pursue.
He felt its arduous labour as he wrought,
And sweats sometimes with a mere stress of thought.
Jealous he aims, and cautiously aspires,
Till, loaded with the ponderous theme, he tires,
And almost owns the images too strong,
And shows he could not bear a rapture long.
So struggles a young prophet, so oppress'd,
When the first inspiration fills his breast;
So trembles at the unknown ecstasy,
And starts at the first movings of the Deity:
While the old seer, used to such strong delight,
Can bear transporting visions all the night.
Not so, as yet, our bard; but, bold and wise,
High as 'twas safe to fall he dared to rise.
If a strong impulse threats the poet's brains,
How seasonably he checks the' obedient reins!

293

The staggering Muse he mercifully unloads,
And gently breathes her in cool episodes;
Turns from the' o'erpowering vigour of the plan,
To gaze, where safe enough he might, on Anne.
So men, when dazzled with too keen a light,
By turning to a cloud, preserve their sight.
He knew, when thoughts are moderately worn,
And the poetic fire is loath to burn,
The' advantage of digression and return;
That when the sickening rhapsodies decline,
He yet might seem to check them by design.
Half the last trump the' adventurous bard reveals,
But then the angel prudently conceals:
For, if he lavish'd here, where should he find
Splendour enough for all the pomp behind?
Like a wise master in these thrifty arts,
He breaks his labour into various parts;
Well knows, and handsomely avoids, the pain
Of driving on in an unbroken strain.
The privilege of beginning saves the sense,
Helps on the work, yet lessens the expense.
We don't expect a preface should surprise:
Cantos, like bells, must have their time to rise;
Tune briskly on a little while, and then,
As peals are used to do, cease down again.

Two noble columns gloriously surprise,
As seraphs well could paint, or Gabriel rise.
Here 'tis the poet burns with heavenly fire,
And here Urania did indeed inspire.
Here the bless'd maid did generously impart
The strength of genius and the blaze of art.
When he unfurls the flag, she still was there;
And waved the Christian banner in the air.
She (heavens! 'twas she) that vigorous colour shed,
And dyed the dreadful standard with so strong a red:
She tinged the bleeding cross that pours a stain,
“Where'er it floats, on earth, or air, or main;
That flush'd the hills, that set on fire the wood,
And turn'd the deep-dyed ocean into blood.
O formidable glory! dreadful bright”—
O stay, Urania, stay thy hasty flight;
Nor leave the bard so soon—Alas! 'tis o'er:
He swoons, he dies, and can sustain no more.

294

The goddess was resolved for once to see
If he could bear the whole divinity:
She tries, and finds a moment more was death;
So kindly leaves him to recover breath.
In pity to her votary she flies:
He, trembling still 'twixt joy and terror, cries,
“'Tis more than mere mortality can bear;”
Then, calm and undisturb'd, concludes in prayer.
Tired with his glorious toil, he leaves the stage,
A warning to the poets of the age,
That none may sacrifice his Muse in vain
To what no single genius can sustain.

But if you build an epic, that shall last
Home to the awful trumpet's rising blast;
Whose period shall the forewarn'd judgment bring,
And perish only in the flames you sing;
That the last ages, as they read in you
Nature's last agonies, may see them too;
“Mingle your different glories in the' essay,
Unite your labours, and divide the day.”

Great Addison, assist the vast design,
And in unrivall'd numbers sing the time
When rocks shall melt, and boiling sea shall roar,
The glories of thy own Campaign be o'er,
And Blenheim's stately dome shall be no more.
Be it thy peculiar labour to prepare
The grand tribunal, blazing in the air:
Describe the' incarnate God, enthroned above;
The flashings of His wrath, and beamings of His love;
When He shows round the token of His wounds,
How sweet He smiles, how awfully He frowns.
Tell how He shines propitious on the good,
The travail of His soul, the purchase of His blood.
Say how they joy and glory in His sight,
Bask in His beams, and glitter in His light;
How to the shivering crowd at length He turns,
His eye-balls glisten, and old Tophet burns.

Standen, with charming airs and lovely grace,
Just in his thoughts, and happy in address,
Shall greet the rising saints, and sweetly sing
How well-rewarded martyrs hail their King;
Range all the thrones in regular array,
And aid the ceremonies of the day.

295

Watts has a soul elaborately wrought,
Command of diction, and a flow of thought:
With ease he kindles love, or flashes fire,
And leads our passions captive to his lyre.
He weeps, and but too well we feel his woe,
While tears, like his own mournful numbers, flow.
Joy, like a sudden trance, flies through his strains,
Plays round our heart, and springs through all our veins.
Then to grave allemands he forms his voice;
And judgment is the theme: we still rejoice;
But, O! like his own consecrated strings,
Rejoice with trembling, as the poet sings.
Silence, thou noisy world: your cares suspend;
A while, ye busy sons of men, attend.
Solemn and dreadful, as the angel swore,
Hark! Watts proclaims, that time shall be no more:
Hear his prophetic lines your doom foretell,
And sentence the whole world to heaven or hell.
And O, what joys must estuate in their breast,
Whom Christ, the righteous Judge, pronounces bless'd!
But at the word “Depart,” (tormenting sound!
Hell!) what a doleful groan will bellow all around!
Watts would describe the rapture and despair;
And tell what shouts, and shrieks, will echo there,
Could he sustain, or seasonably control,
The' impatient sallies of his panting soul.
But when he sees the saints, and views the throne,
And speaks of joys so great that awe his own,
Fired at the thought, he'd burst the feeble clay,
Rush through the tottering walls, and fly away.

Bowden, our eyes are fix'd on you: be kind,
Relieve the reverend prophet's rapturous mind.
“He should, you know, be cautious; and not use
To transports so intensely raised a Muse.”
Succeed him in his thoughts; and let us see
How he would sing, had he but strength like thee.
True, while you show how his vast genius shone,
('Tis all the pain you'll feel,) you'll show your own.
So Raphael leaves, perhaps, at his decease,
Sketches of his intended master-piece:
In broken hints the wild ideas lie,
First starts of fancy, and scarce reach the eye.

296

Kneller, with generous indignation fired
So great essay should be no more admired,
Draws out, methinks, the wondrous thoughts to view,
And unawares paints his own glory too.
Thus equal pencils share the vast design:
Raphael and Kneller in one tablet shine.

The glories of transfigured saints above,
Their joyous anthems in the' harmonious grove,
Their finish'd beauties and consummate love,
Demand the soft description of the fair,
A nicer touch, and a more tender air.
Will Philomela the glad task pursue?
This dear delightful part remains for you.
What, though the listening nymphs and sickening swains
Must hear no more your overcoming strains
Glide gently o'er the meads, or echo through the plains?
What, though unhappy Damon grieves you swore
To think of Hymen and of Love no more?
Yet lead them to those happy worlds on high,
Where youth still blooms, and lovers never die;
Where none (dear state!) a fruitless passion mourn,
But all with sympathetic ardour burn,
And floods of love have oceans in return;
Raptures their endless centuries employ,
And the true God of Love inspires their joy.
Here to one point we must direct our rays;
Or else the languid taper will not blaze:
There more diffusive friendship melts the soul,
And a true catholic passion nobly grasps the whole.

There, at the head of some seraphic choir,
Distinguish'd well by a more tuneful lyre,
Dissolved in praises sits harmonious Rowe;
(Rowe, more than half a seraph here below!)
Yet, at the close of every heavenly strain,
Wishes, and looks, and does almost complain,
“One sweet melodious voice is wanting yet:
Haste, Philomela, make our joys complete.”
O no; you've worlds of angels; we but one:
And what will earth be worth when that is gone?

Come, all ye shepherds, who have often hung
With vast attention on her tender song;

297

Now listen to her more exalted themes
Than sporting lambs, or pretty purling streams;
“Unfeign'd Elysiums, real ecstasies,
A heaven she every day in vision sees.
How souls through groves of living pleasure rove,
How minds enjoy, or living spirits love,”
Are now her favourite thoughts: but, if she please,
The anger of the Lamb, His burning jealousies,
She knows to sing, and, with a godlike ire,
Can set the unbelieving world on fire.
Yes, (hear, O earth!) already, though unknown,
The dreadful conflagration is begun:
Unseen, like lamps amongst the silent urns,
Yet fierce as subterranean fires it burns.
Sappho or Pindar thus tune every song,
Sweet zephyrs breathe, or thunders roll along,
Like music soft, or like a trumpet strong.
O, could I, like her guardian angel, see
Those archives of inspired poesy,
Which only in their native cabinet shine,
As eastern gems in an unplunder'd mine!
(But, ah! 'twas always thy unhappy fate,
Ambitious man, to aim at what's too great.)
And yet, O, could I only now and then
Just taste, and thankfully return again,
A morning rapture, or an evening ode;
(Fragrant thanksgivings to her Saviour-God!)
Then should I own, for all my evils past
Kind Heaven had well rewarded me at last.
Though 'tis not easy, yet we must forego
The' enjoyments we are never born to know.
Yet this a glorious recompence would prove:
Instructed thus, I'd learn to live above,
And by degrees wear off the pangs of meaner love.

“A kind of grave, solemn music, where the measure is full, and the movement slow.” —Kersey.

298

AN EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.

[_]

PRINTED IN 1712.

------ Parnassia laurus
Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbrâ.
—Virgilii Georg. lib. ii. 18.

When Rome, my Lord, in her full glory shone,
And great Augustus ruled the globe alone;
While suppliant kings, in all their pomp and state,
Swarm'd in his courts, and throng'd his palace-gate;

299

Horace did oft the mighty man detain,
And soothed his breast with no ignoble strain;
Now soar'd aloft, now struck an humbler string,
And taught the Roman genius how to sing.

Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue,
Who know no want of Cæsar, finding you.
The Muse's friend is pleased the Muse should press
Through circling crowds, and labour for access,
That partial to his darling he may prove,
And shining throngs for her approach remove,
To all the world industrious to proclaim
His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame.

Long has the Western World reclined her head,
Pour'd forth her sorrow, and bewail'd her dead;
Fell Discord through her borders fiercely ranged,
And shook her nations, and her monarchs changed;
By land and sea its utmost rage employ'd;
Nor Heaven repair'd so fast as men destroy'd.

In vain kind summers plenteous fields bestow'd,
In vain the vintage liberally flow'd;
Alarms from loaden boards all pleasure chased,
And robb'd the rich Burgundian grape of taste.
The smiles of Nature could no blessing bring,
The fruitful autumn, or the flowery spring:
Time was distinguish'd by the sword and spear,
Not by the various aspects of the year;
The trumpet's sound proclaim'd a milder sky,
And bloodshed told us when the sun was nigh.

But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen
When such as you are near her glorious queen!)
Now Peace, though long repulsed, arrives at last,
And bids us smile on all our labours past;
Bids every nation cease her wonted moan,
And every monarch call his crown his own.

300

To valour gentler virtues now succeed;
No longer is the great man born to bleed:
Renown'd in council brave Argyll shall tell,
Wisdom and prowess in one breast may dwell:
Through milder tracts he soars to deathless fame,
And without trembling we resound his name.

No more the rising harvest whets the sword,
No longer waves uncertain of its lord;
Who cast the seed the golden sheaf shall claim,
Nor chance of battle change the master's name.
Each stream unstain'd with blood more smoothly flows;
The brighter sun a fuller day bestows:
All nature seems to wear a cheerful face,
And thank great Anna for returning peace.

The patient thus, when on his bed of pain
No longer he invokes the gods in vain,
But rises to new life; in every field
He finds Elysium, rivers nectar yield;
Nothing so cheap and vulgar but can please,
And borrow beauties from his late disease.

Nor is it peace alone, but such a peace
As more than bids the rage of battle cease.
Death may determine war, and rest succeed,
'Cause nought survives on which our rage may feed.

301

In faithful friends we lose our glorious foes,
And strifes of love exalt our sweet repose.
See graceful Bolingbroke, your friend, advance,
Nor miss his Lansdowne in the court of France;
So well received, so welcome, so at home,
(Bless'd change of fate!) in Bourbon's stately dome.
The monarch pleased, descending from his throne,
Wills not that Anna call him all her own:
He claims a part, and looking round to find
Something might speak the fulness of his mind,
A diamond shines, which oft had touch'd him near,
Renew'd his grief, and robb'd him of a tear;
Now first with joy beheld, well placed on one
Who makes him less regret his darling son.
So dear is Anna's minister, so great
Your glorious friend in his own private state.

To make our nations longer two, in vain
Does Nature interpose the raging main:
The Gallic shore to distant Britain grows;
For Lewis Thames, the Seine for Anna, flows.
From conflicts past each other's worth we find,
And thence in stricter friendship now are join'd;
Each wound received now pleads the cause of love,
And former injuries endearments prove.
What Briton but must prize the' illustrious sword
That cause of fear to Churchill could afford?
Who, sworn to Bourbon's sceptre, but must frame
Vast thoughts of him that could brave Tallard tame?
Thus generous hatred in affection ends,
And war, which raised the foes, completes the friends.

302

A thousand happy consequences flow;
The dazzling prospect makes my bosom glow.
Commerce shall lift her swelling sails, and roll
Her wealthy fleets secure from pole to pole:
The British merchant, who with care and pain
For many moons sees only skies and main,
When now in view of his loved native shore,
The perils of the dreadful ocean o'er,
Cause to regret his wealth no more shall find,
Nor curse the mercy of the sea and wind,
By hardest fate condemn'd to serve a foe,
And give him strength to strike a deeper blow.
Sweet Philomela providently flies
To distant woods and streams for such supplies,
To feed her young, and make them try the wing,
And with their tender notes attempt to sing:
Meanwhile, the fowler spreads his secret snare,
And renders vain the tuneful mother's care.
Britannia's bold adventurer of late
The foaming ocean plough'd with equal fate.

Goodness is greatness in its utmost height,
And power a curse, if not a friend to right;
To conquer is to make dissension cease,
That man may serve the King of kings in peace.
Religion now shall all her rays dispense,
And shine abroad in perfect excellence:
Else we may dread some greater curse at hand,
To scourge a thoughtless and ungrateful land;
Now War is weary, and retired to rest,
The meagre Famine, and the spotted Pest,
Deputed in her stead, may blast the day,
And sweep the relics of the sword away.

When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne,
Jove in the fulness of his glory shone.
Wise Solomon, a stranger to the sword,
Was born to raise a temple to the Lord.
Anne too shall build, and every sacred pile
Speak peace eternal to Britannia's isle.
Those mighty souls whom military care
Diverted from their only great affair,
Shall bend their full united force, to bless
The' almighty Author of their late success.
And what is all the world subdued, to this?
The grave sets bounds to sublunary bliss.

303

But there are conquests to great Anna known
Above the splendour of an earthly throne;
Conquests whose triumph is too great, within
The scanty bounds of matter to begin;
Too glorious to shine forth, till it has run
Beyond this darkness of the stars and sun,
And shall, whole ages past, be still, still but begun.

Heroic shades, whom war has swept away,
Look down, and smile on this auspicious day!
Now boast your deaths; to those your glory tell
Who or at Agincourt or Cressy fell;
Then deep into eternity retire,
Of greater things than peace or war inquire,
Fully content, and unconcern'd to know
What farther passes in the world below.

The bravest of mankind shall now have leave
To die but once, nor piece-meal seek the grave:
On gain or pleasure bent, we shall not meet
Sad melancholy numbers in each street,
(Owners of bones dispersed on Flandria's plain,
Or wasting in the bottom of the main,)
To turn us back from joy, in tender fear
Lest it an insult of their woes appear;
And make us grudge ourselves that wealth their blood
Perhaps preserved, who starve, or beg for food.
Devotion shall run pure, and disengage
From that strange fate of mixing peace with rage.
On Heaven without a sin we now may call,
And guiltless to our Maker prostrate fall;
Be Christians while we pray; nor in one breath
Ask mercy for ourselves, for others death.

But, O! I view with transport arts restored,
Which double use to Britain shall afford;
Secure her glory purchased in the field,
And yet for future peace sweet motives yield.
While we contemplate on the painted wall
The pressing Briton and the flying Gaul,
In such bright images, such living grace,
As leave great Raphael but the second place;
Our cheeks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise,
And martial ardours sparkle in our eyes;
Much we shall triumph in our battles past,
And yet consent those battles prove our last,

304

Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive,
We lose the means to keep that fame alive.

In silent groves the birds delight to sing,
Or near the margin of a secret spring:
Now all is calm, sweet Music shall improve,
Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love.

But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string,
Or breathing canvass, when the Muses sing?
The Muse, my Lord, your care above the rest,
With rising joy dilates my partial breast.
The thunder of the battle ceased to roar
Ere Greece her godlike poets taught to soar:
Rome's dreadful foe, great Hannibal, was dead,
And all her warlike neighbours round her bled,
For Janus shut, her Io Pæans rung,
Before an Ovid or a Virgil sung.

A thousand various forms the Muse may wear,
(A thousand various forms become the fair,)
But shines in none with more majestic mien
Than when in state she draws the purple scene;
Calls forth her monarchs, bids her heroes rage,
And mourning Beauty melt the crowded stage;
Charms back past ages, gives to Britain's use
The noblest virtues Time did e'er produce;
Leaves famed historians' boasted art behind:
They keep the soul alone; and that's confined,
Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks:
The hero's presence deep impression makes;
The scenes his soul and body re-unite,
Furnish a voice, produce him to the sight;
Make our contemporary him that stood
High in renown, perhaps, before the flood;
Make Nestor to this age advice afford,
And Hector for our service draw his sword.

More glory to an author what can bring,
Whence nobler service to his country spring,
Than from those labours which, in man's despite,
Possess him with a passion for the right;
With honest magic make the knave inclined
To pay devotion to the virtuous mind;
Through all her toils and dangers bid him rove,
And with her wants and anguish fall in love?

Who hears the godlike Montezuma groan,
And does not wish the glorious pain his own?

305

Lend but your understanding, and their skill
Can domineer at pleasure o'er your will.
Nor is the short-lived conquest quickly past;
Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast.

How often have I seen the generous bowl
With pleasing force unlock a secret soul,
And steal a truth which every sober hour
(The prose of life) had kept within her power!
The grape victorious often has prevail'd
When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, fail'd:
Yet, when the spirit's tumult was allay'd,
She mourn'd, perhaps, the sentiment betray'd;
But mourn'd too late, nor longer could deny,
And on her own confession charge the lie.

Thus they whom neither the prevailing love
Of goodness here or mercy from above,
Nor fear of future pains or human laws,
Could render advocates in Virtue's cause,
Caught by the scene, have unawares resign'd
Their wonted disposition of the mind:
By slow degrees prevails the pleasing tale,
As circling glasses on our senses steal;
Till, throughly by the Muses' banquet warm'd,
The passions tossing, all the soul alarm'd,
They turn mere zealots flush'd with glorious rage,
Rise in their seats, and scarce forbear the stage,
Assistance to wrong'd Innocence to bring,
Or turn the poniard on some tyrant king.
How can they cool to villains? How subside
To dregs of vice from such a godlike pride?
To spoiling orphans how to-day return,
Who wept last night to see Monimia mourn?
In this gay school of virtue whom so fit
To govern and control the world of wit
As Talbot, Lansdowne's friend, has Britain known
Him polish'd Italy has call'd her own:
He in the lap of Elegance was bred,
And traced the Muses to their fountain-head.
But much we hope he will enjoy at home
What's nearer ancient than the modern Rome.
Nor fear I mention of the court of France,
When I the British genius would advance:

306

There too has Shrewsbury improved his taste;
Yet still we dare invite him to our feast.
For Corneille's sake I shall my thoughts suppress
Of “Oroonoko,” and presume him less:
What, though we wrong him? Isabella's woe
Waters those bays that shall for ever grow.

Our foes confess, nor we the praise refuse,
The drama glories in the British Muse.
The French are delicate, and nicely lead
Of close intrigue the labyrinthian thread;
Our genius more affects the grand than fine;
Our strength can make the great plain action shine.
They raise a great curiosity indeed,
From his dark maze to see the hero freed;
We rouse the' affections, and that hero show
Gasping beneath some formidable blow.
They sigh; we weep: the Gallic doubt and care
We heighten into terror and despair;
Strike home, the strongest passions boldly touch,
Nor fear our audience should be pleased too much.
What's great in nature we can greatly draw,
Nor thank for beauties the dramatic law.
The fate of Cæsar is a tale too plain
The fickle Gallic taste to entertain;
Their art would have perplex'd, and interwove
The golden arras with gay flowers of love:
We know Heaven made him a far greater man
Than any Cæsar in a human plan;
And such we draw him, nor are too refined
To stand affected with what Heaven design'd.
To claim attention, and the heart invade,
Shakspeare but wrote the play the' Almighty made.
Our neighbours' stage, Art too bare-faced betrays,
'Tis great Corneille at every scene we praise:
On Nature's surer aid Britannia calls;
None think of Shakspeare till the curtain falls;
Then with a sigh returns our audience home
From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome.

France yields not to the glory of our lines,
But manly conduct of our strong designs;
That oft they think more justly, we must own,
Not ancient Greece a truer sense has shown.

307

Greece thought but justly; they think justly too:
We sometimes err by striving more to do.
So well are Racine's meanest persons taught,
But change a sentiment, you make a fault;
Nor dare we charge them with the want of flame:
When we boast more, we own ourselves to blame.

And yet in Shakspeare something still I find
That makes me less esteem all human-kind.
He made one nature, and another found:
Both in his page with master-strokes abound:
His witches, fairies, and enchanted isle
Bid us no longer at our nurses smile;
Of lost historians we almost complain,
Nor think it the creation of his brain.
Who lives when his Othello's in a trance?
With his great Talbot, too, he conquer'd France.

Long we may hope brave Talbot's blood will run
In great descendants; Shakspeare has but one;
And him, my Lord, permit me not to name,
But in kind silence spare his rival's shame.
Yet I in vain that author would suppress;
What can't be greater, cannot be made less:
Each reader will defeat my fruitless aim,
And to himself great Agamemnon name.

Should Shakspeare rise unbless'd with Talbot's smile,
E'en Shakspeare's self would curse this barren isle:
But if that reigning star propitious shine,
And kindly mix his gentle rays with thine,
E'en I, by far the meanest of your age,
Shall not repent my passion for the stage.

Thus did the Will Almighty disallow,
No human force could pluck the golden bough,
Which left the tree with ease at Jove's command,
And spared the labour of the weakest hand.

Auspicious Fate, that gives me leave to write
To you, the Muses' glory and delight;
Who know to read, nor false encomiums raise,
And mortify an author with your praise!
Praise wounds a noble mind when 'tis not due;
But Censure's self will please, my Lord, from you;

308

Faults are our pride and gain, when you descend
To point them out, and teach us how to mend.
What, though the great man set his coffers wide?
That cannot gratify the poet's pride;
Whose inspiration, if 'tis truly good,
Is best rewarded when best understood.
The Muses write for glory, not for gold;
'Tis far beneath their nature to be sold:
The greatest gain is scorn'd, but as it serves
To speak a sense of what the Muse deserves;
The Muse, which from her Lansdowne fears no wrong,
Best judge, as well as subject, of her song.
Should this great theme allure me farther still,
And I presume to use your patience ill,
The world would plead my cause; and none but you
Will take disgust at what I now pursue.
Since what is mean my Muse can't raise, I'll choose
A theme that's able to exalt my Muse.

For who, not void of thought, can Granville name,
Without a spark of his immortal flame?
Whether we seek the patriot or the friend,
Let Bolingbroke, let Anna, recommend:
Whether we choose to love or to admire,
You melt the tender, and the' ambitious fire.

Such native graces without thought abound,
And such familiar glories spread around,
As more incline the stander-by to raise
His value for himself, than you to praise.
Thus you befriend the most heroic way,—
Bless all, on none an obligation lay;
So turn'd by Nature's hand for all that's well,
'Tis scarce a virtue when you most excel.

Though sweet your presence, graceful is your mien,
You, to be happy, want not to be seen;
Though prized in public, you can smile alone,
Nor court an approbation but your own.
In throngs, not conscious of those eyes that gaze
In wonder fix'd, though resolute to please;
You, were all blind, would still deserve applause;
The world's your glory's witness, not its cause:

309

That lies beyond the limits of the day;
Angels behold it, and their God obey.

You take delight in others' excellence,—
A gift which Nature rarely does dispense:
Of all that breathe, 'tis you, perhaps, alone
Would be well pleased to see yourself outdone.
You wish not those who show your name respect
So little worth as might excuse neglect;
Nor are in pain lest merit you should know;
Nor shun the well-deserver as a foe,
A troublesome acquaintance, that will claim
To be well used, or dye your cheek with shame.

You wish your country's good; that told, so well
Your powers are known, the' event I need not tell.
When Nestor spoke, none ask'd if he prevail'd;
That god of sweet persuasion never fail'd:
And such great fame had Hector's valour wrought,
Who meant he conquer'd, only said, “He fought.”

When you, my Lord, to sylvan scenes retreat,
No crowds around for pleasure or for state,
You are not cast upon a stranger-land,
And wander pensive o'er the barren strand;
Nor are you by received example taught
In toys to shun the discipline of thought;
But, unconfined by bounds of time and place,
You choose companions from all human race;
Converse with those the deluge swept away,
Or those whose midnight is Britannia's day.

Books not so much inform, as give consent
To those ideas your own thoughts present:
Your only gain from turning volumes o'er
Is finding cause to like yourself the more.
In Grecian sages you are only taught
With more respect to value your own thought:
Great Tully grew immortal, while he drew
Those precepts we behold alive in you:
Your life is so adjusted to their schools,
It makes that history they meant for rules.
What joy, what pleasing transport, must arise
Within your breast, and lift you to the skies,
When, in each learned page that you unfold,
You find some part of your own conduct told!

So pleased, and so surprised, Æneas stood,
And such triumphant raptures fired his blood,

310

When, far from Trojan shores, the hero spied
His story shining forth in all its pride;
Admired himself, and saw his actions stand
The praise and wonder of a foreign land.

He knows not half his being, who's confined
In converse and reflection on mankind:
Your soul, which understands her charter well,
Disdains imprison'd by those skies to dwell;
Ranges eternity without the leave
Of Death, nor waits the passage of the grave.

When pains eternal, and eternal bliss,
When these high cares your weary thoughts dismiss,
In heavenly numbers you your soul unbend,
And for your ease to deathless fame descend.
Ye kings! would ye true greatness understand,
Read Seneca grown rich in Granville's hand.

Behold the glories of your life complete,
Still at a flow, and permanently great!
New moments shed new pleasures as they fly;
And yet your greatest is,—that you must die.

Thus Anna saw, and raised you to the seat
Of honour, and confess'd her servant great;
Confess'd, not made, him such; for faithful Fame
Her trumpet swell'd long since with Granville's name.
Though you in modesty the title wear,
Your name shall be the title of your heir,
Farther than ermine make his glory known,
And cast in shades the favour of a throne.
From thrones the beam of high distinction springs;
The soul's endowments, from the King of kings.
Lo, one great day calls forth ten mighty peers!
Produce ten Granvilles in five thousand years.
Anna, be thou content to fix the fate
Of various kingdoms, and control the great:
But, O! to bid thy Granville brighter shine,—
To Him that great prerogative resign,
Who the sun's height can raise at pleasure higher,
His lamp illumine, set his flames on fire.

Yet still one bliss, one glory I forbear,—
A darling friend whom near your heart you wear;
That lovely youth, my Lord, whom you must blame
That I grow thus familiar with your name.

311

He's friendly, open, in his conduct nice;
Nor serve these virtues to atone for vice:
Vice he has none, or such as none with less
But friends indeed,—good-nature in excess.
You cannot boast the merit of a choice
In making him your own; 'twas Nature's voice,
Which call'd too loud by man to be withstood,
Pleading a tie far nearer than of blood,—
Similitude of manners, such a mind
As makes you less the wonder of mankind.
Such ease his common converse recommends,
As he ne'er felt a passion but his friend's;
Yet fix'd his principles, beyond the force
Of all beneath the sun to bend his course.

Thus the tall cedar, beautiful and fair,
Flatters the motions of the wanton air;
Salutes each passing breeze with head reclined;
The pliant branches dance in every wind:
But, fix'd, the stem her upright state maintains,
And all the fury of the north disdains.

How are you bless'd in such a matchless friend!
Alas! with me the joys of friendship end.
O Harrison! I must, I will complain;
Tears soothe the soul's distress, though shed in vain.
Didst thou return, and bless thy native shore
With welcome peace? and is my friend no more?
Thy task was early done; and I must own
Death kind to thee, but, ah! to thee alone.
But 'tis in me a vanity to mourn;
The sorrows of the great thy tomb adorn:
Strafford and Bolingbroke the loss perceive,
They grieve, and make thee envied in thy grave.

With aching heart and a foreboding mind,
I night to day in painful journey join'd,
When first inform'd of his approaching fate;
But reach'd the partner of my soul too late.
'Twas past: his cheek was cold; that tuneful tongue
Which Isis charm'd with its melodious song,
Now languish'd, wanted strength to speak his pain,
Scarce raised a feeble groan, and sank again.

312

Each art of life in which he bore a part,
Shot like an arrow through my bleeding heart.
To what served all his promised wealth and power,
But more to load that most unhappy hour?

Yet still prevail'd the greatness of his mind;
That, not in health or life itself confined,
Felt through his mortal pangs Britannia's peace,
Mounted to joy, and smiled in death's embrace.

His spirit now just ready to resign,
No longer now his own, no longer mine,
He grasps my hand, his swimming eye-balls roll;
My hand he grasps, and enters in my soul;
Then with a groan—Support me! O, beware
Of holding worth, however great, too dear!

Pardon, my Lord, the privilege of grief,
That in untimely freedom seeks relief.
To better fate your love I recommend:
O may you never lose so dear a friend!
May nothing interrupt your happy hours!
Enjoy the blessings peace on Europe showers:
Nor yet disdain those blessings to adorn:
To make the Muse immortal, you was born.
Sing; and in latest time, when story's dark,
This period your surviving fame shall mark;
Save from the gulf of years this glorious age,
And thus illustrate their historian's page:—

“The crown of Spain in doubtful balance hung,
And Anna Britain sway'd, when Granville sung.
That noted year Europa sheathed her sword,
When this great man was first saluted Lord.”

END OF EPISTLE TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

An ancestor of the Duke of Shrewsbury, who conquered France, drawn by Shakspeare.

See his Lordship's tragedy, entitled “Heroic Love.”

The author here bewails that most ingenious gentleman, Mr. William Harrison, Fellow of New-College, Oxon.

313

TO MR. ADDISON, ON THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.

PREFIXED TO IT IN MDCCXIII.

What do we see? Is Cato, then, become
A greater name in Britain than in Rome?
Does mankind now admire his virtues more,
Though Lucan, Horace, Virgil, wrote before?
How will posterity this truth explain?—
“Cato begins to live in Anna's reign.”
The world's great chiefs, in council or in arms,
Rise in your lines with more exalted charms.
Illustrious deeds, in distant nations wrought,
And virtues, by departed heroes taught,
Raise in your soul a pure immortal flame,
Adorn your life, and consecrate your fame.
To your renown all ages you subdue;
And Cæsar fought, and Cato bled, for you.

All-Souls' Coll. Oxon.

314

ON MICHAEL ANGELO'S FAMOUS PIECE OF THE CRUCIFIXION;

WHO IS SAID TO HAVE STABBED A PERSON, THAT HE MIGHT DRAW IT MORE NATURALLY.

Whilst his Redeemer on his canvass dies,
Stabb'd at his feet his brother weltering lies.
The daring artist, cruelly serene,
Views the pale cheek and the distorted mien:
He drains off life by drops, and, deaf to cries,
Examines every spirit as it flies:
He studies torment, dives in mortal woe;
To rouse up every pang, repeats his blow;
Each rising agony, each dreadful grace,
Yet warm, transplanting to his Saviour's face.
O glorious theft! O nobly wicked draught!
With its full charge of death each feature fraught:
Such wondrous force the magic colours boast,
From his own skill he starts, in horror lost.

315

THE FORCE OF RELIGION;

OR, VANQUISHED LOVE.

A POEM. IN TWO BOOKS.

Gratior et pulchro veniens in corpore virtus.
Virgilii Æneid. lib. v. 344.

[_]

PRINTED IN THE YEAR MDCCXIV.

DEDICATION. TO THE COUNTESS OF SALISBURY.

317

BOOK I.

------Ad cœlum ardentia lumina tollens,
Lumina; nam teneras arcebant vincula palmas.
Virgilii Æneid. lib. ii. 405.

From lofty themes, from thoughts that soar'd on high,
And open'd wondrous scenes above the sky,
My Muse, descend: indulge my fond desire;
With softer thoughts my melting soul inspire,
And smooth my numbers to a female's praise:
A partial world will listen to my lays,
While Anna reigns, and sets a female name
Unrivall'd in the glorious lists of fame.

Hear, ye fair daughters of this happy land,
Whose radiant eyes the vanquish'd world command:
Virtue is Beauty: but when charms of mind
With elegance of outward form are join'd;
When youth makes such bright objects still more bright,
And fortune sets them in the strongest light;
'Tis all of heaven that we below may view,
And all, but Adoration, is your due.

Famed female virtue did this isle adorn,
Ere Ormond, or her glorious Queen, was born:
When now Maria's powerful arms prevail'd,
And haughty Dudley's bold ambition fail'd,
The beauteous daughter of great Suffolk's race,
In blooming youth adorn'd with every grace;
Who gain'd a crown by treason not her own,
And innocently fill'd another's throne;
Hurl'd from the summit of imperial state,
With equal mind sustain'd the stroke of fate.

But how will Guilford, her far dearer part,
With manly reason fortify his heart?
At once she longs, and is afraid, to know:
Now swift she moves, and now advances slow,
To find her lord; and, finding, passes by,
Silent with fear, nor dares she meet his eye,

318

Lest that, unask'd, in speechless grief disclose
The mournful secret of his inward woes.
Thus, after sickness, doubtful of her face,
The melancholy virgin shuns the glass.

At length, with troubled thought, but look serene,
And sorrow soften'd by her heavenly mien,
She clasps her lord, brave, beautiful, and young,
While tender accents melt upon her tongue;
Gentle and sweet, as vernal zephyr blows,
Fanning the lily or the blooming rose:—

“Grieve not, my lord: a crown indeed is lost;
What far outshines a crown, we still may boast,—
A mind composed; a mind that can disdain
A fruitless sorrow for a loss so vain.
Nothing is loss that Virtue can improve
To wealth eternal, and return above;
Above, where no distinction shall be known
'T wixt him whom storms have shaken from a throne,
And him who, basking in the smiles of Fate,
Shone forth in all the splendour of the great.
Nor can I find the difference here below:
I lately was a queen; I still am so,
While Guilford's wife: thee rather I obey,
Than o'er mankind extend imperial sway.
When we lie down in some obscure retreat,
Incensed Maria may her rage forget;
And I to death my duty will improve,
And what you miss in empire, add in love.—
Your godlike soul is open'd in your look,
And I have faintly your great meaning spoke.
For this alone I'm pleased I wore the crown,
To find with what content we lay it down.
Heroes may win, but 'tis a heavenly race
Can quit a throne with a becoming grace.”

Thus spoke the fairest of her sex, and cheer'd
Her drooping lord; whose boding bosom fear'd
A darker cloud of ills would burst, and shed
Severer vengeance on her guiltless head.
Too just, alas! the terrors which he felt;
For, lo, a guard!—Forgive him, if he melt.—
How sharp her pangs, when sever'd from his side
The most sincerely loved and loving bride,
In space confined, the Muse forbears to tell:
Deep was her anguish, but she bore it well.

319

His pain was equal, but his virtue less;
He thought in grief there could be no excess.
Pensive he sat, o'ercast with gloomy care,
And often fondly clasp'd his absent fair;
Now, silent, wander'd through his rooms of state,
And sicken'd at the pomp, and tax'd his fate,
Which thus adorn'd in all her shining store
A splendid wretch, magnificently poor.
Now on the bridal-bed his eyes were cast,
And anguish fed on his enjoyments past;
Each recollected pleasure made him smart,
And every transport stabb'd him to the heart.

That happy moon which summon'd to delight,
That moon which shone on his dear nuptial night,
Which saw him sold her yet untasted charms
(Denied to princes) in his longing arms,
Now sees the transient blessing fleet away,
Empire and love the vision of a day.

Thus, in the British clime, a summer-storm
Will oft the smiling face of heaven deform:
The winds with violence at once descend,
Sweep flowers and fruits, and make the forest bend:
A sudden winter, while the sun is near,
O'ercomes the season, and inverts the year.

But whither is the captive borne away,
The beauteous captive, from the cheerful day?
The scene is changed indeed; before her eyes
Ill-boding looks and unknown horrors rise:
For pomp and splendour, for her guard and crown,
A gloomy dungeon, and a keeper's frown.
Black thoughts, each morn, invade the lover's breast;
Each night, a russian locks the queen to rest.

Ah mournful change, if judged by vulgar minds!
But Suffolk's daughter its advantage finds.
Religion's force Divine is best display'd
In deep desertion of all human aid.
To succour in extremes, is her delight,
And cheer the heart, when Terror strikes the sight.
We, disbelieving our own senses, gaze,
And wonder what a mortal's heart can raise
To triumph o'er misfortunes, smile in grief,
And comfort those who come to bring relief.
We gaze; and, as we gaze, wealth, fame, decay,
And all the world's vain glories fade away.

320

Against her cares she raised a dauntless mind;
And, with an ardent heart, but most resign'd,
Deep in the dreadful gloom, with pious heat,
Amid the silence of her dark retreat,
Address'd her God:—“Almighty Power Divine!
'Tis Thine to raise, and to depress is Thine;
With honour to light up the name unknown,
Or to put out the lustre of a throne.
In my short span both fortunes I have proved;
And though with ill frail Nature will be moved,
I'll bear it well: (O strengthen me to bear!)
And if my piety may claim Thy care;
If I remember'd, in youth's giddy heat,
And tumult of a court, a future state;
O favour, when Thy mercy I implore
For one who never guilty sceptre bore!
'Twas I received the crown; my lord is free:
If it must fall, let vengeance fall on me!
Let him survive, his country's name to raise,
And in a guilty land to speak Thy praise!
O may the' indulgence of a father's love,
Pour'd forth on me, be doubled from above!
If these are safe, I'll think my prayers succeed,
And bless Thy tender mercies, whilst I bleed.”

'Twas now the mournful eve before that day
In which the queen to her full wrath gave way;
Through rigid justice rush'd into offence,
And drank in zeal the blood of Innocence.
The sun went down in clouds, and seem'd to mourn
The sad necessity of his return:
The hollow wind, and melancholy rain,
Or did, or was imagined to, complain:
The tapers cast an inauspicious light;
Stars there were none, and doubly dark the night.

Sweet Innocence in chains can take her rest:
Soft slumber gently creeping through her breast,
She sinks; and in her sleep is re-enthroned,
Mock'd by a gaudy dream, and vainly crown'd.
She views her fleets and armies, seas and land,
And stretches wide her shadow of command:
With royal purple is her vision hung;
By phantom hosts are shouts of conquest rung:
Low at her feet the suppliant rival lies;
Our prisoner mourns her fate, and bids her rise.

321

Now level beams upon the waters play'd,
Glanced on the hills, and westward cast the shade.
The busy trades in city had began
To sound, and speak the painful life of man.
In tyrants' breasts the thoughts of vengeance rouse,
And the fond bridegroom turns him to his spouse.
At this first birth of light, while morning breaks,
Our spouseless bride, our widow'd wife, awakes;
Awakes, and smiles; nor night's imposture blames:
Her real pomps were little more than dreams;
A short-lived blaze, a lightning quickly o'er,
That died in birth, that shone, and were no more.
She turns her side, and soon resumes a state
Of mind well suited to her alter'd fate,—
Serene, though serious,—when dread tidings come
(Ah wretched Guilford!) of her instant doom.
Sun, hide thy beams; in clouds as black as night
Thy face involve; be guiltless of the sight;
Or haste more swiftly to the western main,
Nor let her blood the conscious day-light stain!

O how severe! to fall so new a bride,
Yet blushing from the priest, in youthful pride,
When Time had just matured each perfect grace,
And open'd all the wonders of her face;
To leave her Guilford dead to all relief,
Fond of his woe, and obstinate in grief!
Unhappy fair! whatever Fancy drew,
Vain promised blessings, vanish from her view.
No train of cheerful days, endearing nights,
No sweet domestic joys, and chaste delights;
Pleasures that blossom e'en from doubts and fears,
And bliss and rapture rising out of cares.
No little Guilford, with paternal grace,
Lull'd on her knee, or smiling in her face;
Who, when her “dearest father” shall return
From pouring tears on her untimely urn,
Might comfort to his silver hairs impart,
And fill her place in his indulgent heart:
As, where fruits fall, quick-rising blossoms smile,
And the bless'd Indian of his care beguile.

In vain these various reasons jointly press
To blacken death, and heighten her distress:
She, through the' encircling terrors, darts her sight
To the bless'd regions of eternal light,

322

And fills her soul with peace: to weeping friends
Her father, and her lord, she recommends;
Unmoved herself. Her foes her air survey,
And rage to see their malice thrown away.
She soars; now nought on earth detains her care—
But Guilford, who still struggles for his share.
Still will his form importunately rise,
Clog and retard her transport to the skies.
As trembling flames now take a feeble flight,
Now catch the brand with a returning light;
Thus her soul onward from the seats above
Falls fondly back, and kindles into love.
At length she conquers in the doubtful field;
That heaven she seeks will be her Guilford's shield.
Now Death is welcome; his approach is slow;
'Tis tedious longer to expect the blow.

O mortals short of sight, who think the past
O'erblown misfortune still shall prove the last!
Alas! misfortunes travel in a train,
And oft in life form one perpetual chain;
Fear buries fear, and ills on ills attend,
Till life and sorrow meet one common end.

She thinks that she has nought but Death to fear,
And Death is conquer'd. Worse than Death is near:
Her rigid trials are not yet complete:
The news arrives of her great father's fate.
She sees his hoary head, all white with age,
A victim to the' offended monarch's rage.
How great the mercy, had she breathed her last
Ere the dire sentence on her father pass'd!

A fonder parent Nature never knew;
And as his age increased, his fondness grew.
A parent's love ne'er better was bestow'd:
The pious daughter in her heart o'erflow'd.
And can she from all weakness still refrain,
And still the firmness of her soul maintain?
Impossible! a sigh will force its way,
One patient tear her mortal birth betray.
She sighs and weeps; but so she weeps and sighs,
As silent dews descend, and vapours rise.

Celestial Patience! how dost thou defeat
The foe's proud menace, and elude his hate!
While Passion takes his part, betrays our peace,
To death and torture swells each slight disgrace;

323

By not opposing, thou dost ills destroy,
And wear thy conquer'd sorrows into joy.

Now she revolves within her anxious mind,
What woe still lingers in reserve behind.
Griefs rise on griefs, and she can see no bound,
While Nature lasts, and can receive a wound.
The sword is drawn; the queen to rage inclined,
By mercy nor by piety confined.
What mercy can the zealot's heart assuage,
Whose piety itself converts to rage?
She thought, and sigh'd. And now the blood began
To leave her beauteous cheek all cold and wan.
New sorrow dimm'd the lustre of her eye,
And on her cheek the fading roses die.
Alas! should Guilford too—When now she's brought
To that dire view, that precipice of thought;
While there she trembling stands, nor dares look down,
Nor can recede, till Heaven's decrees are known;
Cure of all ills till now, her lord appears—
But not to cheer her heart, and dry her tears;
Not now, as usual, like the rising day,
To chase the shadows and the damps away;
But, like a gloomy storm, at once to sweep
And plunge her to the bottom of the deep.
Black were his robes, dejected was his air,
His voice was frozen by his cold despair;
Slow, like a ghost, he moved with solemn pace;
A dying paleness sat upon his face.
Back she recoil'd; she smote her lovely breast;
Her eyes the anguish of her heart confess'd:
Struck to the soul, she stagger'd with the wound,
And sunk, a breathless image, to the ground.

Thus the fair lily, when the sky's o'ercast,
At first but shudders in the feeble blast;
But when the winds and weighty rains descend,
The fair and upright stem is forced to bend;
Till, broke at length, its snowy leaves are shed,
And strew with dying sweets their native bed.

324

BOOK II.

Hic pietatis honos? Sic nos in sceptra reponis?
Virgilii Æneid. lib. i. 253.

Her Guilford clasps her, beautiful in death,
And with a kiss recalls her fleeting breath:
To tapers thus, which by a blast expire,
A lighted taper, touch'd, restores the fire.
She rear'd her swimming eye, and saw the light,
And Guilford too, or she had loathed the sight.
Her father's death she bore, despised her own;
But now she must, she will, have leave to groan.
“Ah, Guilford!” she began, and would have spoke;
But sobs rush'd in, and every accent broke:
Reason itself, as gusts of passion blew,
Was ruffled in the tempest, and withdrew.

So the youth lost his image in the well,
When tears upon the yielding surface fell:
The scatter'd features slid into decay,
And spreading circles drove his face away.

To touch the soft affections, and control
The manly temper of the bravest soul,
What with afflicted Beauty can compare,
And drops of love distilling from the fair?
It melts us down; our pains delight bestow,
And we with fondness languish o'er our woe.

This Guilford proved; and, with excess of pain,
And pleasure too, did to his bosom strain
The weeping fair; sunk deep in soft desire,
Indulged his love, and nursed the raging fire;
Then tore himself away, and, standing wide,
As fearing a relapse of fondness, cried,
With ill-dissembled grief, “My life, forbear!
You wound your Guilford with each cruel tear.
Did you not chide my grief? Repress your own;
Nor want compassion for yourself alone.
Have you beheld how, from the distant main,
The thronging waves roll on, a numerous train,
And foam, and bellow, till they reach the shore;
There burst their noisy pride, and are no more?

325

Thus the successive flows of human race,
Chased by the coming, the preceding chase;
They sound and swell, their haughty heads they rear;
Then fall and flatten, break and disappear.
Life is a forfeit we must shortly pay;
And where's the mighty lucre of a day?
Why should you mourn my fate? 'Tis most unkind;
Your own you bore with an unshaken mind:
And which, can you imagine, was the dart
That drank most blood, sunk deepest in my heart?
I cannot live without you; and my doom
I meet with joy, to share one common tomb.—
And are again your tears profusely spilt?
O, then my kindness blackens to my guilt;
It foils itself, if it recall your pain:—
Life of my life, I beg you to refrain!
The load which Fate imposes, you increase,
And help Maria to destroy my peace.”

But, O! against himself his labour turn'd;
The more he comforted, the more she mourn'd.
Compassion swells our grief; words soft and kind
But soothe our weakness, and dissolve the mind.
Her sorrow flow'd in streams; nor hers alone;
While that he blamed, he yielded to his own.
Where are the smiles she wore, when she so late
Hail'd him great partner of the regal state;
When orient gems around her temples blazed,
And bending nations on the glory gazed?

'Tis now the queen's command they both retreat,
To weep with dignity, and mourn in state.
She forms the decent misery with joy,
And loads with pomp the wretch she would destroy.
A spacious hall is hung with black; all light
Shut out, and noon-day darken'd into night.
From the mid-roof a lamp depends on high,
Like a dim crescent in a clouded sky:
It sheds a quivering melancholy gloom,
Which only shows the darkness of the room.
A shining axe is on the table laid,—
A dreadful sight!—and glitters through the shade.

In this sad scene the lovers are confined;
A scene of terrors to a guilty mind;
A scene that would have damp'd with rising cares,
And quite extinguish'd, every love but theirs.

326

What can they do? They fix their mournful eyes—
Then Guilford thus abruptly,—“I despise
An empire lost; I fling away the crown;
Numbers have laid that bright delusion down:
But where's the Charles, or Diocletian where,
Could quit the blooming, wedded, weeping fair?
O, to dwell ever on thy lip; to stand
In full possession of thy snowy hand;
And, through the' unclouded crystal of thine eye,
The heavenly treasures of the mind to spy;
Till rapture Reason happily destroys,
And my soul wanders through immortal joys!
Give me the world, and ask me where's my bliss,
I clasp thee to my breast, and answer, ‘This.’
And shall the grave”—He groans, and can no more,
But all her charms in silence traces o'er,
Her lip, her cheek, and eye, to wonder wrought;
And, wondering, sees, in sad presaging thought,
From that fair neck that world of beauty fall,
And roll along the dust, a ghastly ball!

O, let those tremble who are greatly bless'd!
For who but Guilford could be thus distress'd?
Come hither, all you happy, all you great,
From flowery meadows, and from rooms of state:
Nor think I call, your pleasures to destroy;
But, to refine and to exalt your joy:
Weep not; but, smiling, fix your ardent care
On nobler titles than “the Brave” or “Fair.”

Was ever such a mournful, moving sight?
See, if you can, by that dull, trembling light:
Now they embrace; and, mix'd with bitter woe,
Like Isis and her Thames, one stream they flow:
Now they start wide; fix'd in benumbing care,
They stiffen into statues of despair:
Now, tenderly severe and fiercely kind,
They rush at once; they fling their cares behind,
And clasp, as if to death; new vows repeat,
And, quite wrapp'd up in love, forget their fate.
A short delusion! for the raging pain
Returns; and their poor hearts must bleed again.

Meantime, the queen new cruelty decreed,
But ill content that they should only bleed,
A priest is sent, who, with insidious art,
Instils his poison into Suffolk's heart;

327

And Guilford drank it: hanging on the breast,
He from his childhood was with Rome possess'd.
When now the ministers of death draw nigh,
And in her dearest lord she first must die,
The subtle priest, who long had watch'd to find
The most unguarded passes of her mind,
Bespoke her thus:—“Grieve not; 'tis in your power
Your lord to rescue from this fatal hour.”
Her bosom pants; she draws her breath with pain;
A sudden horror thrills through every vein:
Life seems suspended, on his words intent;
And her soul trembles for the great event.

The priest proceeds: “Embrace the faith of Rome,
And ward your own, your lord's, and father's doom.”
Ye blessed spirits! now your charge sustain:
The past was ease; now first she suffers pain.
Must she pronounce her father's death? Must she
Bid Guilford bleed?—It must not, cannot be.
It cannot be! But 'tis the Christian's praise,
Above impossibilities to raise
The weakness of our nature, and deride
Of vain Philosophy the boasted pride.
What, though our feeble sinews scarce impart
A moment's swiftness to the feather'd dart;
Though tainted air our vigorous youth can break,
And a chill blast the hardy warrior shake?
Yet are we strong: hear the loud tempest roar
From east to west, and call us weak no more;
The lightning's unresisted force proclaims
Our might, and thunders raise our humble names.
'Tis our Jehovah fills the heavens; as long
As He shall reign Almighty, we are strong:
We, by devotion, borrow from His throne,
And almost make Omnipotence our own:
We force the gates of heaven by fervent prayer,
And call forth triumph out of man's despair.

Our lovely mourner, kneeling, lifts her eyes
And bleeding heart in silence to the skies,
Devoutly sad; then, brightening, like the day,
When sudden winds sweep scatter'd clouds away,
Shining in majesty till now unknown,
And breathing life and spirits scarce her own,
She, rising, speaks: “If these the terms”—

328

Here Guilford, cruel Guilford, (barbarous man!
Is this thy love?) as swift as lightning ran:
O'erwhelm'd her, with tempestuous sorrow fraught,
And stifled in its birth the mighty thought;
Then, bursting fresh into a flood of tears,
Fierce, resolute, delirious with his fears,—
His fears for her alone,—he beat his breast,
And thus the fervour of his soul express'd:—
“O let thy thought o'er our past converse rove,
And show one moment uninflamed with love!
O, if thy kindness can no longer last,
In pity to thyself, forget the past!
Else wilt thou never, void of shame and fear,
Pronounce his doom whom thou hast held so dear;
Thou who hast took me to thy arms, and swore
Empires were vile, and Fate could give no more;
That to continue was its utmost power,
And make the future like the present hour.
Now call a ruffian; bid his cruel sword
Lay wide the bosom of thy worthless lord;
Transfix his heart, (since you its love disclaim,)
And stain his honour with a traitor's name.
This might perhaps be borne without remorse:
But sure a father's pangs will have their force.
Shall his good age, so near its journey's end,
Through cruel torment to the grave descend?
His shallow blood all issue at a wound,
Wash a slave's feet, and smoke upon the ground?
But he to you has ever been severe;
Then take your vengeance!”—Suffolk now drew near,
Bending beneath the burden of his care;
His robes neglected, and his head was bare.
Decrepit Winter, in the yearly ring,
Thus slowly creeps, to meet the blooming Spring.
Downward he cast a melancholy look;
Thrice turn'd, to hide his grief; then faintly spoke:—
“Now deep in years, and forward in decay,
That axe can only rob me of a day:
For thee, my soul's desire, I can't refrain;
And shall my tears, my last tears, flow in vain?
When you shall know a mother's tender name,
My heart's distress no longer will you blame.”
At this, afar his bursting groans were heard;
The tears ran trickling down his silver beard:

329

He snatch'd her hand, which to his lips he press'd,
And bid her plant a dagger in his breast;
Then, sinking, call'd her piety unjust,
And soil'd his hoary temples in the dust.

Hard-hearted men! will you no mercy know?
Has the queen bribed you to distress her foe?
O weak deserters to misfortune's part,
By false affection thus to pierce her heart,
When she had soar'd, to let your arrows fly,
And fetch her bleeding from the middle sky!
And can her Virtue, springing from the ground,
Her flight recover, and disdain the wound,
When cleaving love and human interest bind
The broken force of her aspiring mind?
As round the generous eagle, which in vain
Exerts her strength, the serpent wreaths his train,
Her struggling wings entangles, curling plies
His poisonous tail, and stings her as she flies!

While yet the blow's first dreadful weight she feels,
And with its force her resolution reels,
Large doors, unfolding with a mournful sound,
To view discover, weltering on the ground,
Three headless trunks of those whose arms maintain'd
And in her wars immortal glory gain'd:
The lifted axe assured her ready doom,
And silent mourners sadden'd all the room.
Shall I proceed? or here break off my tale,
Nor truths to stagger human faith reveal?

She met this utmost malice of her fate
With Christian dignity and pious state:
The beating storm's propitious rage she bless'd,
And all the martyr triumph'd in her breast.
Her lord and father, for a moment's space,
She strictly folded in her soft embrace.
Then thus she spoke, while angels heard on high,
And sudden gladness smiled along the sky:—

“Your over-fondness has not moved my hate:
I am well pleased you make my death so great:
I joy I cannot save you; and have given
Two lives, much dearer than my own, to Heaven,
If so the queen decrees: —but I have cause
To hope my blood will satisfy the laws,

330

And there is mercy still for you in store:
With me the bitterness of Death is o'er.
He shot his sting in that farewell-embrace,
And all that is to come is joy and peace.
Then let mistaken sorrow be suppress'd,
Nor seem to envy my approaching rest.”
Then, turning to the ministers of Fate,
She, smiling, says, “My victory complete:
And tell your queen, I thank her for the blow,
And grieve my gratitude I cannot show.
A poor return I leave in England's crown
For everlasting pleasure and renown:
Her guilt alone allays this happy hour;
Her guilt,—the only vengeance in her power.”

Not Rome, untouch'd with sorrow, heard her fate;
And fierce Maria pitied her too late.

Here she embraces them.

END OF THE FORCE OF RELIGION.

331

ON THE LATE QUEEN'S DEATH, AND HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE.

INSCRIBED TO JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ., SECRETARY TO THEIR EXCELLENCES THE LORDS JUSTICES.

Gaudia curis.
—Hor.

MDCCXIV.

Sir, I have long, and with impatience, sought
To ease the fulness of my grateful thought,
My fame at once and duty to pursue,
And please the public by respect to you.

Though you, long since beyond Britannia known,
Have spread your country's glory with your own,
To me you never did more lovely shine,
Than when so late the kindled wrath Divine
Quench'd our ambition in great Anna's fate,
And darken'd all the pomp of human state.
Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay,
Though raised in life, and greatness fade away,
Your lustre brightens: virtue cuts the gloom
With purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb.

Know, sir, the great esteem and honour due
I chose, that moment, to profess to you,
When sadness reign'd; when fortune, so severe,
Had warm'd our bosoms to be most sincere;
And when no motives could have force to raise
A serious value, and provoke my praise,
But such as rise above, and far transcend
Whatever glories with this world shall end;

332

Then shining forth, when deepest shades shall blot
The sun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot.

I sing—but ah! my theme I need not tell:
See every eye with conscious sorrow swell.
Who now to verse would raise his humble voice,
Can only show his duty, not his choice.
How great the weight of grief our hearts sustain!
We languish, and to speak is to complain.

Let us look back; (for who too oft can view
That most illustrious scene, for ever new?)
See all the seasons shine on Anna's throne,
And pay a constant tribute, not their own.
Her summers heats nor fruits alone bestow;
They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe:
And when black storms confess the distant sun,
Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won.
Revolving pleasures in their turns appear,
And triumphs are the product of the year.
To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease,
And glorious victory is lost in peace.

Whence this profusion on our favour'd isle?
Did partial fortune on our virtue smile?
Or did the sceptre, in great Anna's hand,
Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land?
Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim;
Thy queen, and thy good fortune, are the same.

Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky;
'Tis Anna reigns, the Gallic squadrons fly!
We spread our canvass to the southern shore;
'Tis Anna reigns, the south resigns her store!
Her virtue smooths the tumult of the main,
And swells the field with mountains of the slain.
Argyle and Churchill but the glory share,
While millions lie subdued by Anna's prayer.

How great her zeal! how fervent her desire!
How did her soul in holy warmth expire!
Constant devotion did her time divide,
Not set returns of pleasure or of pride.
Not want of rest, or the sun's parting ray,
But finish'd duty, limited the day.
How sweet succeeding sleep! What lovely themes
Smiled in her thoughts, and soften'd all her dreams!
Her royal couch descending angels spread,
And join'd their wings a shelter o'er her head.

333

Though Europe's wealth and glory claim'd a part,
Religion's cause reign'd mistress of her heart.
She saw, and grieved to see, the mean estate
Of those who round the hallow'd altar wait:
She shed her bounty, piously profuse,
And thought it more her own in sacred use.

Thus on his furrow see the tiller stand,
And fill with genial seed his lavish hand;
He trusts the kindness of the fruitful plain,
And providently scatters all his grain.

What strikes my sight? Does proud Augusta rise
New to behold, and awfully surprise?
Her lofty brow more numerous turrets crown,
And sacred domes on palaces look down:
A noble pride of piety is shown,
And temples cast a lustre on the throne.
How would this work another's glory raise!
But Anna's greatness robs her of the praise.
Drown'd in a brighter blaze, it disappears:
Who dried the widow's and the orphan's tears?
Who stoop'd from high to succour the distress'd,
And reconcile the wounded heart to rest?
Great in her goodness, well could we perceive,
Whoever sought, it was a queen that gave.
Misfortune lost her name; her guiltless frown
But made another debtor to the crown;
And each unfriendly stroke from fate we bore,
Became our title to the regal store.

Thus injured trees adopt a foreign shoot,
And their wounds blossom with a fairer fruit.

Ye numbers, who on your misfortunes thrived,
When first the dreadful blast of fame arrived,
Say, what a shock, what agonies you felt!
How did your souls with tender anguish melt!
That grief which living Anna's love suppress'd,
Shook like a tempest every grateful breast.
A second fate our sinking fortunes tried!
A second time our tender parents died!

Heroes, returning from the field, we crown,
And deify the haughty victor's frown:
His splendid wealth too rashly we admire,
Catch the disease, and burn with equal fire.
Wisely to spend is the great art of gain;
And one relieved transcends a million slain.

334

When time shall ask where once Ramillia lay,
Or Danube flow'd that swept whole troops away;
One drop of water, that refresh'd the dry,
Shall rise a fountain of eternal joy.

But ah! to that unknown and distant date
Is virtue's great reward push'd off by fate:
Here random shafts in every breast are found;
Virtue and merit but provoke the wound.

August in native worth and regal state,
Anna sate arbitress of Europe's fate;
To distant realms did every accent fly,
And nations watch'd each motion of her eye.
Silent, nor longer awful to be seen,
How small a spot contains the mighty queen!
No throng of suppliant princes mark the place
Where Britain's greatness is composed in peace:
The broken earth is scarce discern'd to rise,
And a stone tells us where the monarch lies.

Thus end maturest honours of a crown!
This is the last conclusion of renown!

So, when with idle skill the wanton boy
Breathes through his tube, he sees with eager joy
The trembling bubble, in its rising small;
And by degrees expands the glittering ball.
But when, to full perfection blown, it flies
High in the air, and shines in various dyes,
The little monarch, with a falling tear,
Sees his world burst at once, and disappear.

'Tis not in sorrow to reverse our doom,
No groans unlock the' inexorable tomb.
Why, then, this fond indulgence of our woe?
What fruit can rise, or what advantage flow?
Yes, this advantage,—from our deep distress
We learn how much in George the gods can bless.
Had a less glorious princess left the throne,
But half the hero had at first been shown:
An Anna falling, all the king employs
To vindicate from guilt our rising joys.
Our joys arise, and innocently shine:
Auspicious monarch, what a praise is thine!

Welcome, great stranger, to Britannia's throne!
Nor let thy country think thee all her own.
Of thy delay how oft did we complain!
Our hopes reach'd out, and met thee on the main.

335

With prayer we smooth the billows for thy fleet;
With ardent wishes fill thy swelling sheet;
And when thy foot took place on Albion's shore,
We bending bless'd the gods, and ask'd no more.
What hand but thine should conquer and compose,
Join those whom interest joins, and chase our foes,
Repel the daring youth's presumptuous aim,
And by his rival's greatness give him fame?
Now in some foreign court he may sit down,
And quit without a blush the British crown;
Secure his honour, though he lose his store,
And take a lucky moment to be poor.

Nor think, great sir, now first, at this late hour,
In Britain's favour you exert your power;
To us, far back in time, I joy to trace
The numerous tokens of your princely grace;
Whether you chose to thunder on the Rhine,
Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine:
In the more scenes your genius was display'd,
The greater debt was on Britannia laid:
They all conspired this mighty man to raise,
And your new subjects proudly share the praise.

All share; but may not we have leave to boast
That we contemplate and enjoy it most?
This ancient nurse of arts, indulged by fate
On gentle Isis' bank, a calm retreat,
For many rolling ages justly famed,
Has through the world her loyalty proclaim'd;
And often pour'd (too well the truth is known!)
Her blood and treasure to support the throne,
For England's church her latest accents strain'd,
And freedom with her dying hand retain'd.
No wonder, then, her various ranks agree
In all the fervencies of zeal for thee.

What, though thy birth a distant kingdom boast,
And seas divide thee from the British coast?
The crown's impatient to enclose thy head:
Why stay thy feet? The cloth of gold is spread.
Our strict obedience through the world shall tell,
That king's a Briton who can govern well.

On the Death of Queen Anne and the Accession of King George I.

336

A LETTER TO MR. TICKELL,

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ.,

------Tu nunc eris alter ab illo.
—Virgilii Bucol. ecl. v. 49.

MDCCXIX.

O long with me in Oxford groves confined,
In social arts and sacred friendship join'd;
Fair Isis' sorrow, and fair Isis' boast;
Lost from her side, but fortunately lost!
Thy wonted aid, my dear companion, bring,
And teach me thy departed friend to sing:
A darling theme, once powerful to inspire,
And now to melt, the Muses' mournful choir.
Now, and now first, we freely dare commend
His modest worth; nor shall our praise offend.

Early he bloom'd amid the learned train,
And ravish'd Isis listen'd to his strain.
“See, see,” she cried, “old Maro's Muse appears,
Waked from her slumber of two thousand years:
Her finish'd charms to Addison she brings,
Thinks in his thought, and in his numbers sings.
All read transported his pure classic page;
Read, and forget their climate and their age.”

The State, when now his rising fame was known,
The' unrivall'd genius challenged for her own;
Nor would that one, for scenes of action strong,
Should let a life evaporate in song.
As health and strength the brightest charms dispense,
Wit is the blossom of the soundest sense:

337

Yet few, how few, with lofty thoughts inspired,
With quickness pointed, and with rapture fired,
In conscious pride their own importance find,
Blind to themselves, as the hard world is blind!
Wit they esteem a gay but worthless power,
The slight amusement of a leisure hour;
Unmindful that, conceal'd from vulgar eyes,
Majestic Wisdom wears the bright disguise.

Poor Dido fondled thus, with idle joy,
Dread Cupid, lurking in the Trojan boy;
Lightly she toy'd and trifled with his charms,
And knew not that a god was in her arms.

Who greatest excellence of thought could boast,
In action, too, have been distinguish'd most:
This Somers knew, and Addison sent forth
From the malignant regions of the north,
To be matured in more indulgent skies,
Where all the vigour of the soul can rise,
Through warmer veins where sprightlier spirits run,
And sense enliven'd sparkles in the sun.
With secret pain the prudent patriot gave
The hopes of Britain to the rolling wave;
Anxious the charge to all the stars resign'd,
And placed a confidence in sea and wind.

Ausonia soon received her wondering guest,
And equal wonder in her turn confess'd,
To see her fervours rivall'd by the pole,
Her lustre beaming from a northern soul.
In like surprise was her Æneas lost,
To find his picture grace a foreign coast.

Now the wide field of Europe he surveys,
Compares her kings, her thrones and empires weighs,
In ripen'd judgment and consummate thought;
Great work, by Nassau's favour cheaply bought!

He now returns to Britain a support,
Wise in her senate, graceful in her court;
And, when the public welfare would permit,
The source of learning, and the soul of wit.
O Warwick! (whom the Muse is fond to name,
And kindles, conscious of her future theme,)
O Warwick! by Divine contagion bright,
How early didst thou catch his radiant light!

338

By him inspired, how shine before thy time,
And leave thy years, and leap into thy prime!

On some warm bank thus, fortunately born,
A rose-bud opens to a summer's morn,
Full-blown ere noon her fragrant pride displays,
And shows the' abundance of her purple rays.

Wit, as her bays, was once a barren tree;
We now, surprised, her fruitful branches see;
Or, orange-like, till his auspicious time
It grew, indeed, but shiver'd in our clime:
He first the plant to richer gardens led,
And fix'd, indulgent, in a warmer bed.
The nation, pleased, enjoys the rich produce,
And gathers from her ornament her use.

When, loose from public cares, the grove he sought,
And fill'd the leisure interval with thought,
The various labours of his easy page
(A chance amusement!) polish'd half an age.
Beyond this truth old bards could scarce invent,
Who durst to frame a world by accident.

What he has sung, how early, and how well,
The Thames shall boast, and Roman Tiber tell.
A glory more sublime remains in store,—
Since such his talents,—that he sang no more.
No fuller proof of power the' Almighty gave,
Making the sea, than curbing her proud wave.

Nought can the genius of his works transcend,
But their fair purpose and important end;
To rouse the war for injured Europe's laws,
To steel the patriot in great Brunswick's cause;
With Virtue's charms to kindle sacred love,
Or paint the' eternal bowers of bliss above.
Where hadst thou room, great author? where, to roll,
The mighty theme of an immortal soul?
Through paths unknown, unbeaten, whence were brought
Thy proofs so strong for immaterial thought?
One let me join, all other may excel:
“How could a mortal essence think so well?”

But why so large in the great writer's praise?
More lofty subjects should my numbers raise;
In him (illustrious rivalry!) contend
The statesman, patriot, Christian, and the friend.
His glory such, it borders on disgrace
To say he sang the best of human race.

339

In joy once join'd, in sorrow now for years,
Partner in grief, and brother of my tears,
Tickell! accept this verse, thy mournful due:
Thou farther shalt the sacred theme pursue;
And, as thy strain describes the matchless man,
Thy life shall second what thy Muse began.
Though sweet the numbers, though a fire Divine
Dart through the whole, and burn in every line,
Who strives not for that excellence he draws,
Is stain'd by fame, and suffers from applause.

But haste to thy illustrious task; prepare
The noble work well trusted to thy care,
The gift bequeath'd by Addison's command,
To Craggs made sacred by his dying hand.
Collect the labours, join the various rays,
The scatter'd light, in one united blaze;
Then bear to him so true, so truly loved,
In life distinguish'd, and in death approved,
The' immortal legacy. He hangs awhile
In generous anguish o'er the glorious pile;
With anxious pleasure the known page reviews,
And the dear pledge with falling tears bedews.
What, though thy tears, pour'd o'er thy godlike friend,
Thy other cares for Britain's weal suspend?
Think not, O patriot! while thy eyes o'erflow,
Those cares suspended for a private woe:
Thy love to him is to thy country shown;
He mourns for her, who mourns for Addison.

See Dr. Young's account of Mr. Addison's death, near the conclusion of his “Conjectures on Original Composition.”

Lord Somers procured a pension for Mr. Addison, which enabled him to prosecute his travels.

The publication of his Works.

340

THE INSTALMENT.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR ROBERT WALPOLE, KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER.

Quæsitam meritis. —Horatii Carm. lib. iii. od. xxx. 15.

MDCCXXVI.

With invocations some their breasts inflame;
I need no Muse,—a Walpole is my theme.

Ye mighty dead, ye garter'd sons of praise!
Our morning stars, our boast in former days!
Which, hovering o'er, your purple wings display,
Lured by the pomp of this distinguish'd day;
Stoop, and attend: by one the knee be bound;
One throw the mantle's crimson folds around;
By that the sword on his proud thigh be placed;
This clasp the diamond girdle round his waist.
His breast with rays let just Godolphin spread;
Wise Burleigh plant the plumage on his head;
And Edward own, since first he fix'd the race,
None press'd for glory with a swifter pace.

When fate would call some mighty genius forth
To wake a drooping age to godlike worth,
Or aid some favourite king's illustrious toil,
It bids his blood with generous ardour boil;
His blood, from virtue's celebrated source,
Pour'd down the steep of time, a lengthen'd course;
That men prepared may just attention pay,
Warn'd by the dawn to mark the glorious day,
When all the scatter'd merits of his line,
Collected to a point, intensely shine.

See, Britain, see thy Walpole shine from far,
His azure ribbon, and his radiant star;
A star that, with auspicious beams, shall guide
Thy vessel safe through fortune's roughest tide.

If peace still smiles, by this shall commerce steer
A finish'd course in triumph round the sphere;

341

And, gathering tribute from each distant shore,
In Britain's lap the world's abundance pour.

If war's ordain'd, this star shall dart its beams
Through that black cloud which, rising from the Thames,
With thunder, form'd of Brunswick's wrath, is sent
To claim the seas, and awe the continent.
This shall direct it where the bolt to throw,
A star for us, a comet to the foe.

At this the Muse shall kindle, and aspire:
My breast, O Walpole, glows with grateful fire:
The streams of royal bounty, turn'd by thee,
Refresh the dry domains of poesy.
My fortune shows, when arts are Walpole's care,
What slender worth forbids us to despair.
Be this thy partial smile from censure free:
'Twas meant for merit, though it fell on me.

Since Brunswick's smile has authorized my Muse,
Chaste be her conduct, and sublime her views.
False praises are the whoredoms of the pen,
Which prostitute fair fame to worthless men:
This profanation of celestial fire
Makes fools despise what wise men should admire.
Let those I praise to distant times be known,
Not by their author's merit, but their own.
If others think the task is hard, to weed
From verse rank flattery's vivacious seed,
And rooted deep; one means must set them free:—
Patron and patriot! let them sing of thee.

While vulgar trees ignoble honours wear,
Nor those retain when winter chills the year;
The generous Orange, favourite of the sun,
With vigorous charms can through the seasons run;
Defies the storm with her tenacious green;
And flowers and fruits in rival pomp are seen:
Where blossoms fall, still fairer blossoms spring;
And midst their sweets the feather'd poets sing.

On Walpole thus may pleased Britannia view
At once her ornament, and profit too;
The fruit of service, and the bloom of fame,
Matured and gilded by the royal beam.
He, when the nipping blasts of envy rise,
Its guilt can pity, and its rage despise;
Lets fall no honours, but, securely great,
Unfaded holds the colour of his fate;

342

No winter knows, though ruffling factions press,
By wisdom deeply rooted in success:
One glory shed, a brighter is display'd;
And the charm'd Muses shelter in his shade.

O how I long, enkindled by the theme,
In deep eternity to launch thy name!
Thy name in view, no rights of verse I plead;
But what chaste truth indites, old time shall read.

“Behold a man of ancient faith and blood,
Which soon beat high for arts and public good;
Whose glory great, but natural, appears,
The genuine growth of services and years;
No sudden exhalation drawn on high,
And fondly gilt by partial majesty:
One bearing greatest toils with greatest ease;
One born to serve us, and yet born to please;
Whom, while our rights in equal scales he lays,
The prince may trust, and yet the people praise:
His genius ardent, yet his judgment clear;
His tongue is flowing, and his heart sincere;
His counsel guides, his temper cheers, our isle,
And, smiling, gives three kingdoms cause to smile.”

Joy, then, to Britain, bless'd with such a son!
To Walpole joy, by whom the prize is won;
Who, nobly conscious, meets the smiles of fate!
True greatness lies in daring to be great.
Let dastard souls in affectation run
To shades, nor wear bright honours fairly won:
Such men prefer. misled by false applause,
The pride of modesty to virtue's cause.
Honours, which make the face of virtue fair,
'Tis great to merit, and 'tis wise to wear.
'Tis holding up the prize to public view,
Confirms grown virtue, and inflames the new;
Heightens the lustre of our age and clime,
And sheds rich seeds of worth for future time.

Proud chiefs alone, in fields of slaughter famed,
Of old this azure bloom of glory claim'd;
As, when stern Ajax pour'd a purple flood,
The violet rose, fair daughter of his blood.
Now rival wisdom dares the wreath divide,
And both Minervas rise in equal pride;

343

Proclaiming loud, a monarch fills the throne
Who shines illustrious not in wars alone.

Let fame look lovely in Britannia's eyes:
They coldly court desert, who fame despise.
For what's ambition, but fair virtue's sail?
And what applause, but her propitious gale?
When swell'd with that, she fleets before the wind
To glorious aims, as to the port design'd.
When chain'd, without it, to the labouring oar,
She toils, she pants, nor gains the flying shore,
From her sublime pursuits or turn'd aside
By blasts of envy, or by fortune's tide:
For one that has succeeded ten are lost,
Of equal talents, ere they make the coast.

Then let renown to worth Divine incite
With all her beams, but throw those beams aright.
Then merit droops, and genius downward tends,
When godlike glory, like our land, descends.
Custom the Garter long confined to few,
And gave to birth exalted virtue's due:
Walpole has thrown the proud enclosure down,
And high desert embraces fair renown.
Though rivall'd, let the peerage smiling see
(Smiling, in justice to their own degree)
This proud reward, by majesty bestow'd
On worth like that whence first the peerage flow'd.
From frowns of fate Britannia's bliss to guard,
Let subjects merit, and let kings reward.
Gods are most gods by giving to excel,
And kings most like them by rewarding well.

Though strong the twanging nerve, and drawn aright,
Short is the winged arrow's upward flight;
But if an eagle it transfix on high,
Lodged in the wound, it soars into the sky.

Thus while I sing thee with unequal lays,
And wound, perhaps, that worth I mean to praise;
Yet I transcend myself, I rise in fame,
Not lifted by my genius, but my theme.

No more: for, in this dread suspense of fate,
Now kingdoms fluctuate, and in dark debate
Weigh peace and war: now Europe's eyes are bent
On mighty Brunswick for the great event;
Brunswick, of kings the terror or defence!
Who dares detain thee at a world's expense?

Knight of the Bath, and then of the Garter.

344

LOVE OF FAME, THE UNIVERSAL PASSION.

IN SEVEN CHARACTERISTICAL SATIRES.

------ Fulgente trahit constrictos gloria curru
Non minus ignotos generosis.
—Horatii Serm. lib. i. sat. vi. 23.

MDCCXXV–MDCCXXVIII.

347

SATIRE I. TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF DORSET.

------ Tantò major Famæ sitis est, quàm Virtutis.
—Juvenalis Sat. x. 140.

My verse is Satire:—Dorset, lend your ear,
And patronize a Muse you cannot fear.
To poets sacred is a Dorset's name,
Their wonted passport through the gates of Fame:
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays:
The dazzled judgment fewer faults can see,
And gives applause to Blackmore or to me.
But you decline the mistress we pursue:
Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you.

Instructive Satire, true to Virtue's cause,
Thou shining supplement of public laws!
When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age
Reproach our silence, and demand our rage;

348

When purchased follies, from each distant land,
Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;
When the Law shows her teeth, but dares not bite,
And South-Sea treasures are not brought to light;
When churchmen scripture for the classics quit,
Polite apostates from God's grace to wit;
When men grow great from their revenue spent,
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;
When dying sinners, to blot out their score,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore;—
To chase our spleen, when themes like these increase,
Shall Panegyric reign, and Censure cease?

Shall Poesy, like Law, turn wrong to right,
And dedications wash an Æthiop white,
Set up each senseless wretch for Nature's boast,
On whom praise shines as trophies on a post?
Shall funeral Eloquence her colours spread,
And scatter roses on the wealthy dead?
Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,
And satirize with nothing—but their praise?

Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train,
Nor hears that Virtue which he loves complain?
Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester, are dead;
And Guilt's chief foe in Addison is fled.
Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels, fairly won,
Sits smiling at the goal, while others run:
He will not write; and (more provoking still!)
Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will.

Doubly distress'd, what author shall we find
Discreetly daring, and severely kind,
The courtly Roman's shining path to tread,
And sharply smile prevailing Folly dead?
Will no superior genius snatch the quill,
And save me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Though vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise:
What will not men attempt for sacred Praise?

The Love of Praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or less, and glows in every heart:

349

The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modest shun it, but to make it sure.
O'er globes and sceptres now on thrones it swells;
Now trims the midnight lamp in college-cells:
'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades;
Here to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.

What is not proud? The pimp is proud to see
So many like himself in high degree:
The whore is proud her beauties are the dread
Of peevish Virtue and the marriage-bed:
And the bribed cuckold, like crown'd victims born
To slaughter, glories in his gilded horn.

Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,
And come back much more guilty than they went:
One way they look, another way they steer;
Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear;
And when their sins they set sincerely down,
They'll find that their religion has been one.

Others with wishful eyes on glory look,
When they have got their picture towards a book;
Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign,
Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine.
If at his title Trapp had dropp'd his quill,
Trapp might have pass'd for a great genius still.
But Trapp, alas! (excuse him, if you can,)
Is now a scribbler, who was once a man.

Imperious some a classic fame demand,
For heaping up, with a laborious hand,
A waggon-load of meanings for one word,
While A 's deposed, and B with pomp restored.

350

Some, for renown, on scraps of learning dote,
And think they grow immortal as they quote.
To patch-work learn'd quotations are allied;
Both strive to make our poverty our pride.

On glass how witty is a noble peer!
Did ever diamond cost a man so dear?

Polite diseases make some idiots vain:
Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see:
And (stranger still!) of blockheads' flattery;
Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean,
By spitting on your face, to make it clean.

Nor is't enough all hearts are swoln with Pride:
Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide.
What can she not perform? The Love of Fame
Made bold Alphonsus his Creator blame;
Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep;
And (stronger still!) made Alexander weep.
Nay, it holds Delia from a second bed,
Though her loved lord has four half-months been dead.

This passion with a pimple have I seen
Retard a cause, and give a judge the spleen.

351

By this inspired, (O ne'er to be forgot!)
Some lords have learn'd to spell, and some to knot.
It makes Globose a speaker in the house;
He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.
It makes “dear self” on well-bred tongues prevail,
And “I” the little hero of each tale.

Sick with the Love of Fame, what throngs pour in,
Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin!
My growing subject seems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.

Aid me, great Homer, with thy epic rules,
To take a catalogue of British fools.
Satire! had I thy Dorset's force Divine,
A knave or fool should perish in each line;
Though for the first all Westminster should plead,
And for the last all Gresham intercede.

Begin:—who first the catalogue shall grace?
To quality belongs the highest place.
My lord comes forward;—forward let him come!
Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room!
He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet,
By heraldry proved valiant or discreet.
With what a decent pride he throws his eyes
Above the man by three descents less wise!
If virtues at his noble hands you crave,
You bid him raise his fathers from the grave.
Men should press forward in Fame's glorious chase;
Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Let high birth triumph! What can be more great?
Nothing—but merit in a low estate.
To Virtue's humblest son let none prefer
Vice, though descended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base,
Slight or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honest men and wise;
The fool or knave, that wears a title, lies.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.
Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary shine.

Vain as false greatness is, the Muse must own
We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone;
Mean sons of earth, who, on a South-Sea tide
Of full success, swam into wealth and pride,

352

Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate,
And beg to be descended from the great.

When men of infamy to grandeur soar,
They light a torch to show their shame the more.
Those governments which curb not evils, cause;
And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.

Belus with solid glory will be crown'd:
He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound;
But builds himself a name; and, to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immense estate!
In cost and grandeur, Chandos he'll out-do;
And, Burlington, thy taste is not so true.
The pile is finish'd; every toil is past;
And full perfection is arrived at last;
When, lo! my lord to some small corner runs,
And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns.

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay,
Provides a home from which to run away.
In Britain, what is many a lordly seat
But a discharge in full for an estate?

In smaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame:
Not domes, but antique statues, are his flame.
Not Fountain's self more Parian charms has known;
Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone.
The bailiffs come, (rude men, profanely bold!)
And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
“No, sirs,” he cries; “I'll sooner rot in jail:
Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail?”
Such heads might make their very bustoes laugh:
His daughter starves, but Cleopatra's safe.

Men overloaded with a large estate,
May spill their treasure in a nice conceit:
The rich may be polite; but, O! 'tis sad
To say you're curious, when we swear you're mad.
By your revenue measure your expense;
And to your funds and acres join your sense.
No man is bless'd by accident or guess;
True wisdom is the price of happiness:

353

Yet few without long discipline are sage,
And our youth only lays up sighs for age.

But how, my Muse, canst thou resist so long
The bright temptation of the courtly throng,
Thy most inviting theme? The court affords
Much food for satire;—it abounds in lords.
“What lords are those saluting with a grin?”
One is just out, and one as lately in.
“How comes it then to pass we see preside
On both their brows an equal share of pride?”
Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all;
Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall.
As in its home, it triumphs in high place;
And frowns, a haughty exile, in disgrace.
Some lords it bids admire their wands so white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight:
Some lords it bids resign, and turn their wands,
Like Moses', into serpents in their hands.
These sink, as divers, for renown; and boast,
With pride inverted, of their honours lost.
But against reason, sure, 'tis equal sin,
To boast of merely being out or in.

What numbers here, through odd ambition, strive
To seem the most transported things alive!
As if by “joy” desert was understood,
And all the fortunate were wise and good.
Hence aching bosoms wear a visage gay,
And stifled groans frequent the ball and play.
Completely dress'd by Monteuil and grimace,
They take their birth-day suit and public face:
Their smiles are only part of what they wear,
Put off at night, with Lady Bristol's hair.
What bodily fatigue is half so bad?
With anxious care they labour to be glad.

What numbers here would into Fame advance,
Conscious of merit, in the coxcomb's dance,—
The tavern, park, assembly, mask, and play,—
Those dear destroyers of the tedious day!
That wheel of fops! that saunter of the town!
Call it “diversion,” and the pill goes down.
Fools grin on fools, and, Stoic-like, support,
Without one sigh, the pleasures of a court.

354

Courts can give nothing to the wise and good,
But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude.
High stations tumult, but not bliss, create:
None think the great unhappy but the great.
Fools gaze, and envy; Envy darts a sting,
Which makes a swain as wretched as a king.

I envy none their pageantry and show;
I envy none the gilding of their woe.
Give me, indulgent gods, with mind serene,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene.
No splendid poverty, no smiling care,
No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.
There pleasing objects useful thoughts suggest;
The sense is ravish'd, and the soul is bless'd:
On every thorn delightful wisdom grows;
In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
But some, untaught, o'erhear the whispering rill,—
In spite of sacred leisure, blockheads still:
Nor shoots up Folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native soil,—the drawing-room.

The squire is proud to see his coursers strain,
Or well-breathed beagles sweep along the plain.
Say, dear Hippolytus, (whose drink is ale,
Whose erudition is a Christmas tale,
Whose mistress is saluted with a smack,
And friend received with thumps upon the back,)
When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praise? Let Ringwood's fame alone:
Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own;
Nor envies, when a gipsy you commit,
And shake the clumsy bench with country wit;
When you the dullest of dull things have said,
And then ask pardon for the “jest” you made.

Here breathe, my Muse! and then thy task renew:
Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view.
Fewer lay-atheists made by church-debates;
Fewer great beggars famed for large estates;

355

Ladies whose love is constant as the wind;
Cits who prefer a guinea to mankind;
Fewer grave lords to Scroope discreetly bend;
And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend.

Is there a man of an eternal vein,
Who lulls the town in winter with his strain;
At Bath, in summer, chants the reigning lass,
And sweetly whistles, as the waters pass?
Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?
Is there, whom his tenth epic mounts to fame?
Such, and such only, might exhaust my theme;
Nor would these heroes of the task be glad;
For who can write so fast as men run mad?

Horace.

A famous statue.

A famous tailor.

SATIRE II.

My Muse, proceed, and reach thy destined end,
Though toils and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes and gods make other poems fine;
Plain Satire calls for sense in every line.
Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose!
All friends to Vice and Folly are thy foes.
When such the foe, a war eternal wage;
'Tis most ill-nature to repress thy rage:
And if these strains some nobler Muse excite,
I'll glory in the verse I did not write.

So weak are human-kind by Nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd,
Almighty Vanity! to thee they owe
Their zest of pleasure, and their balm of woe.
Thou, like the sun, all colours dost contain,
Varying, like rays of light on drops of rain.
For every soul finds reasons to be proud,
Though hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.

Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown,
Hippolytus demands the sylvan crown;
But Florio's fame, the product of a shower,
Grows in his garden,—an illustrious flower!

356

Why teems the earth? Why melt the vernal skies?
Why shines the sun?—To make “Paul Diack” rise.
From morn to night has Florio gazing stood,
And wonder'd how the gods could be so good.
What shape! what hue! Was ever nymph so fair?
He dotes! he dies! He, too, is rooted there.
O solid bliss! which nothing can destroy—
Except a cat, bird, snail, or idle boy.
In Fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night,
And wakes next day a most inglorious wight:
The tulip's dead! See thy fair sister's fate,
O C---! and be kind ere 'tis too late.

Nor are those enemies I mention'd all:
Beware, O florist, thy ambition's fall.
A friend of mine indulged this noble flame:
A Quaker served him, Adam was his name.
To one loved tulip oft the master went,
Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent;
But came and miss'd it one ill-fated hour:
He raged, he roar'd! “What demon cropp'd my flower?”
Serene quoth Adam, “Lo! 'twas crush'd by me:
Fallen is the Baal to which thou bow'dst thy knee.”

But all men want amusement; and what crime
In such a paradise to fool their time?
None: but why proud of this? To Fame they soar:
We grant they're idle, if they'll ask no more.

We smile at florists, we despise their joy,
And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy:
But are those wiser whom we most admire,
Survey with envy, and pursue with fire?
What's he who sighs for wealth, or fame, or power?
Another Florio doting on a flower;
A short-lived flower, and which has often sprung
From sordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit?
The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit.
Thy gaudy shelves crimson bindings glow,
And Epictetus is a perfect beau.
How fit for thee, bound up in crimson too,
Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!
Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard
That science should be purchased by the yard;

357

And Tonson, turn'd upholsterer, send home
The gilded leather to “fit up” thy room.

If not to some peculiar end design'd,
Study's the specious trifling of the mind;
Or is at best a secondary aim,
A chase for sport alone, and not for game.
If so, sure, they who the mere volume prize
But love the thicket where the quarry lies.

On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found at length that it reduced his rent;
His farms were flown; when, lo! a sale comes on,
A choice collection: what is to be done?
He sells his last;—for he the whole will buy;—
Sells even his house; nay, wants whereon to lie:
So high the generous ardour of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran
When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk,
Lorenzo sign'd the bargain—with his mark.
Unlearned men of books assume the care,
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.

Not in his authors' liveries alone
Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown:
Editions various, at high prices bought,
Inform the world what Codrus would be thought;
And to this cost another must succeed,—
To pay a sage, who says that he can read;
Who titles knows, and indexes has seen,
But leaves to Orrery what lies between,
Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense,
And humbly is contented with their sense.

O Dorset, whose accomplishments make good
The promise of a long illustrious blood,
In arts and manners eminently graced,
The strictest honour, and the finest taste!
Accept this verse; if Satire can agree
With so consummate a humanity.

By your example would Hilario mend:
How would it grace the talents of my friend,

358

Who, with the charms of his own genius smit,
Conceives all virtues are comprised in wit!
But time his fervent petulance may cool;
For, though he is a wit, he is not fool.
In time he'll learn to use, not waste, his sense;
Nor make a frailty of an excellence.
He spares nor friend nor foe; but calls to mind,
Like doomsday, all the faults of all mankind.

What, though wit tickles? Tickling is unsafe,
If still 'tis painful while it makes us laugh.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart,
Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Parts may be praised, good-nature is adored;
Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword:
And never on the weak; or you'll appear,
As there no hero, no great genius here.
As in smooth oil the razor best is whet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set:
Their want of edge from their offence is seen;
Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.
The Fame men give is for the joy they find;
“Dull” is the jester, when the joke's unkind.

Since Marcus, doubtless, thinks himself a wit,
To pay my compliment what place so fit?
His most facetious letters came to hand,
Which my First Satire sweetly reprimand.
If that a just offence to Marcus gave,
Say, Marcus, which art thou,—a fool, or knave?
For all but such with caution I forbore;
That thou wast either, I ne'er knew before.
I know thee now, both what thou art, and who;
No mask so good but Marcus must shine through:
False names are vain, thy lines their author tell;
Thy best concealment had been writing well.
But thou a brave neglect of Fame hast shown,—
Of others' Fame, great genius! and thy own.
Write on unheeded; and this maxim know,—
The man who pardons disappoints his foe.

In malice to proud wits, some proudly lull
Their peevish reason, vain of being dull:
When some home-joke has stung their solemn souls,
In vengeance they determine—to be fools;

359

Through spleen, that little Nature gave make less,
Quite zealous in the ways of heaviness;
To lumps inanimate a fondness take,
And disinherit sons that are awake.
These, when their utmost venom they would spit,
Most barbarously tell you, “He's a wit.”
Poor negroes thus, to show their burning spite
To caco-demons, say, “They're devilish white.”

Lampridius, from the bottom of his breast,
Sighs o'er one child; but triumphs in the rest.
How just his grief! One carries in his head
A less proportion of the father's lead;
And is in danger, without special grace,
To rise above a justice of the peace.
The dunghill-breed of men a diamond scorn,
And feel a passion for a grain of corn;
Some stupid, plodding, money-loving wight,
Who wins their hearts by knowing black from white;
Who, with much pains, exerting all his sense,
Can range aright his shillings, pounds, and pence.

The booby father craves a booby son,
And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.

Wants of all kinds are made to Fame a plea:
One learns to lisp; another, not to see.
Miss Duncombe, tottering, catches at your hand:
Was ever thing so pretty born to stand?
Whilst these what Nature gave disown through pride,
Others affect what Nature has denied:
What Nature has denied, fools will pursue,
As apes are ever walking upon two.

Crassus, a grateful sage, our awe and sport!
Supports grave forms; for forms the sage support.
He hems; and cries, with an important air,
“If yonder clouds withdraw, it will be fair:”
Then quotes the Stagirite, to prove it true;
And adds, “The learn'd delight in something new.”
Is't not enough the blockhead scarce can read,
But must he wisely look, and gravely plead?
As far a formalist from Wisdom sits,
In judging eyes, as libertines from wits.

These subtle wights (so blind are mortal men,
Though Satire couch them with her keenest pen)
For ever will hang out a solemn face,
To put off nonsense with a better grace:

360

As pedlars with some hero's head make bold,
Illustrious mark! where pins are to be sold.
What's the bent brow, or neck in thought reclined?
The body's wisdom to conceal the mind.
A man of sense can artifice disdain,
As men of wealth may venture to go plain;
And be this truth eternal ne'er forgot,—
Solemnity's a cover for a sot.
I find the fool, when I behold the screen;
For 'tis the wise man's interest to be seen.

Hence, Dodington, that openness of heart,
And just disdain for that poor mimic art;
Hence (manly praise!) that manner nobly free,
Which all admire, and I commend, in thee.

With generous scorn how oft hast thou survey'd
Of court and town the noontide masquerade;
Where swarms of knaves the vizor quite disgrace,
And hide secure behind a naked face;
Where Nature's end of language is declined,
And men talk only to conceal the mind;
Where generous hearts the greatest hazard run,
And he who trusts a brother is undone!

These all their care expend on outward show
For wealth and Fame; for Fame alone, the beau.
Of late at White's was young Florello seen:
How blank his look! how discomposed his mien!
So hard it proves in grief sincere to feign!
Sunk were his spirits; for his coat was plain.

Next day his breast regain'd its wonted peace;
His health was mended with a silver lace.
A curious artist, long inured to toils
Of gentler sort, with combs, and fragrant oils,
Whether by chance, or by some god inspired,
So touch'd his curls, his mighty soul was fired:
The well-swoln ties an equal homage claim,
And either shoulder has its share of fame:
His sumptuous watch-case, though conceal'd it lies,
Like a good conscience, solid joy supplies.
He only thinks himself (so far from vain!)
Stanhope in wit, in breeding Deloraine.

361

Whene'er, by seeming chance, he throws his eye
On mirrors that reflect his Tyrian dye,
With how sublime a transport leaps his heart!
But Fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
In active measures, brought from France, he wheels,
And triumphs, conscious of his learned heels.

So have I seen, on some bright summer's day,
A calf of genius, debonair and gay,
Dance on the bank, as if inspired by Fame,
Fond of the pretty fellow in the stream.

Morose is sunk with shame, whene'er surprised
In linen clean, or peruke undisguised.
No sublunary chance his vestments fear;
Valued, like leopards, as their spots appear.
A famed surtout he wears, which once was blue;
And his foot swims in a capacious shoe.
One day his wife (for who can wives reclaim?)
Levell'd her barbarous needle at his Fame:
But open force was vain; by night she went,
And, while he slept, surprised the darling rent:
Where yawn'd the frieze, is now become a doubt;
And glory, “at one entrance, quite shut out.”

He scorns Florello, and Florello him:
This hates the filthy creature; that, the prim.
Thus, in each other, both these fools despise
Their own dear selves, with undiscerning eyes:
Their methods various, but alike their aim;
The sloven and the fopling are the same.

Ye Whigs and Tories! thus it fares with you,
When party-rage too warmly you pursue:
Then both club nonsense and impetuous pride,
And folly joins whom sentiments divide.
You vent your spleen, as monkeys, when they pass,
Scratch at the mimic monkey in the glass;
While both are one: and henceforth be it known,
Fools of both sides shall stand for fools alone.

“But who art thou?” methinks Florello cries:
“Of all thy species art thou only wise?”
Since smallest things can give our sins a twitch,
As crossing straws retard a passing witch,
Florello, thou my monitor shalt be;
I'll conjure thus some profit out of thee.

362

O thou myself! abroad our counsels roam,
And, like ill husbands, take no care at home.
Thou, too, art wounded with the common dart,
And Love of Fame lies throbbing at thy heart;
And what wise means to gain it hast thou chose?
Know, Fame and Fortune both are made of prose.
Is thy ambition sweating for a rhyme,
Thou unambitious fool, at this late time?
While I a moment name, a moment's past;
I'm nearer death in this verse than the last:
What, then, is to be done? Be wise with speed;
A fool at forty is a fool indeed.

And what so foolish as the chase of Fame?
How vain the prize! how impotent our aim!
For what are men who grasp at praise sublime,
But bubbles on the rapid stream of time,
That rise and fall, that swell and are no more,
Born and forgot, ten thousand in an hour?

This refers to the First Satire.

Letters sent to the author, signed “Marcus.”

Milton.

SATIRE III. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MR. DODINGTON.

Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought
To ease the burden of my grateful thought:
And now a poet's gratitude you see;
Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three.
For whose the present glory, or the gain?
You give protection, I a worthless strain.
You love and feel the poet's sacred flame,
And know the basis of a solid fame;
Though prone to like, yet cautious to commend,
You read with all the malice of a friend;
Nor favour my attempts that way alone,
But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own.

363

An ill-timed modesty! Turn ages o'er;
When wanted Britain bright examples more?
Her learning (and her genius too) decays,
And dark and cold are her declining days:
As if men now were of another cast,
They meanly live on alms of ages past.
Men still are men; and they who boldly dare
Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair;
Or, if they fail, they justly still take place
Of such who run in debt for their disgrace;
Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,
And damn it with improvements of their own.
We bring some new materials, and what's old
New-cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould:
Late times the verse may read, if these refuse;
And from sour critics vindicate the Muse.

“Your work is long,” the critics cry.—'Tis true;
And lengthens still, to take-in fools like you.
Shorten my labour, if its length you blame;
For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game;
As hunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue,
Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.

Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile,
That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,
Will I enjoy (dread feast!) the critic's rage,
And with the fell destroyer feed my page.
For what ambitious fools are more to blame,
Than those who thunder in the critic's name?
Good authors, damn'd, have their revenge in this,—
To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.

Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,
Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,
As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,
“Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!”
Ye doctors sage, who through Parnassus teach,
Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.

One judges as the weather dictates: right
The poem is at noon, and wrong at night.
Another judges by a surer gauge,—
An author's principles, or parentage:
Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell,
The poem doubtless must be written well.
Another judges by the writer's look;
Another judges, for he bought the book:

364

Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep;
Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep.

Thus all will judge, and with one single aim,—
To gain themselves, not give the writer, Fame.
The very best ambitiously advise,
Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise.

Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs, wait,
Proclaim the glory, and augment the state:
Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry
Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die.
Rail on, my friends! What more my verse can crown
Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown?

Not all on books their criticism waste:
The genius of a dish some justly taste,
And eat their way to Fame: with anxious thought
The salmon is refused, the turbot bought.
Impatient Art rebukes the sun's delay,
And bids December yield the fruits of May.
Their various cares in one great point combine
The business of their lives; that is—to dine.
Half of their precious day they give the feast,
And to a kind digestion spare the rest.
Apicius here, the taster of the town,
Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown.

These worthies of the palate guard with care
The sacred annals of their bills of fare;
In those choice books their panegyries read,
And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed.
If man by feeding well commences great,
Much more the worm to whom that man is meat.

To glory some advance a lying claim,
Thieves of renown, and pilferers of Fame:
Their front supplies what their ambition lacks;
They know a thousand lords—behind their backs.
Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer,
When turn'd away, with a familiar leer;
And Hervey's eyes, unmercifully keen,
Have murder'd fops, by whom she ne'er was seen.
Niger adopts stray libels; wisely prone
To covet shame still greater than his own.

365

Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore,
Belies his innocence, and keeps a whore.
Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame,
Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name;
Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set,
And takes a memorandum to forget.
Thus vain, not knowing what adorns or blots,
Men forge the patents that create them sots.

As love of pleasure into pain betrays,
So most grow infamous through love of praise.
But whence for praise can such an ardour rise,
When those who bring that incense we despise?
For such the vanity of great and small,
Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all.

Nor can e'en Satire blame them; for, 'tis true,
They have most ample cause for what they do.
O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant
A nurse of fools, to stock the continent.
Though Phœbus and the Nine for ever mow,
Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow.
The plenteous harvest calls me forward still,
Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill;
A Welch descent, which well-paid heralds damn;
Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram.
When, cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen,
In comes a coxcomb, and I write again.

See, Tityrus, with merriment possess'd,
Is burst with laughter ere he hears the jest.
What need he stay? for when the joke is o'er,
His teeth will be no whiter than before.
Is there of these, ye fair! so great a dearth,
That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth?

Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire:
Of houses, some; nay, houses that they hire:
Some, (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife;
And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life.

Sometimes, through pride, the sexes change their airs;
My lord has vapours, and my lady swears:
Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind
My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind.

To show the strength and infamy of pride,
By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied.
What numbers are there which at once pursue
Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too!

366

Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame,
And therefore lays a stratagem for Fame;
Makes his approach in modesty's disguise,
To win applause; and takes it by surprise.
“To err,” says he, “in small things, is my fate.”
You know your answer,—he's “exact in great.”
“My style,” says he, “is rude and full of faults.”
“But O what sense! what energy of thoughts!”
That he wants algebra, he must confess;
“But not a soul to give our arms success.”
“Ah! that's a hit indeed,” Vincenna cries;
“But who in heat of blood was ever wise?
I own 'twas wrong, when thousands call'd me back,
To make that hopeless, ill-advised attack:
All say, 'twas madness; nor dare I deny:
Sure never fool so well deserved to die.”
Could this deceive in others, to be free,
It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee;
Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue,
So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong.
Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear;
And haunt the court, without a prospect there.
Are these expedients for renown? Confess
Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less.

Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake:
Our fortunes there nor thou nor I shall make.
E'en men of merit, ere their point they gain,
In hardy service make a long campaign;
Most manfully besiege their patron's gate,
And, oft repulsed, as oft attack the great
With painful art and application warm,
And take, at last, some little place by storm;
Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean,
And starve upon discreetly in Sheer-Lane.
Already this thy fortune can afford;
Then starve without the favour of my lord.
'Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer;
But often, e'en in doing right, they err:
From caprice, not from choice, their favours come;
They give, but think it toil to know to whom;
The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance
'Tis inhumanity to bless by chance.
If Merit sues, and Greatness is so loath
To break its downy trance, I pity both.

367

I grant, at court Philander, at his need,
(Thanks to his lovely wife,) finds friends indeed.
Of every charm and virtue she's possess'd:—
Philander, thou art exquisitely bless'd,
The public envy! Now, then, 'tis allow'd,
The man is found who may be justly proud:
But see, how sickly is Ambition's taste!
Ambition feeds on trash, and loathes a feast;
For, lo! Philander, of reproach afraid,
In secret loves his wife, but keeps her maid.

Some nymphs sell reputation; others buy,
And love a market where the rates run high.
Italian music's sweet, because 'tis dear;
Their vanity is tickled, not their ear:
Their tastes would lessen, if the prices fell,
And Shakspeare's wretched stuff do quite as well;
Away the disenchanted fair would throng,
And own that English is their mother-tongue.

To show how much our northern tastes refine,
Imported nymphs our peeresses outshine:
While tradesmen starve, these Philomels are gay;
For generous lords had rather give than pay.

Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene!
The legislature join'd with Drury-Lane!
When Britain calls, the' embroider'd patriots run,
And serve their country—if the dance is done.
“Are we not, then, allow'd to be polite?”
Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right.
Worth of politeness is the needful ground;
Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found.
Triflers not e'en in trifles can excel;
'Tis solid bodies only polish well.

Great, chosen prophet for these latter days,
To turn a willing world from righteous ways!
Well, Heidegger, dost thou thy master serve;
Well has he seen his servant should not starve.

368

Thou to his name hast splendid temples raised,
In various forms of worship seen him praised,
Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown,
And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown.
Inferior offerings to thy god of vice
Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice:
Thy sacrifice supreme, a hundred maids,—
That solemn rite of midnight masquerades!
If maids the quite exhausted town denies,
A hundred heads of cuckolds may suffice.
Thou smilest, well pleased with the converted land,
To see the fifty churches at a stand.
And that thy ministry may never fail,
But what thy hand has planted still prevail,
Of minor prophets a succession sure
The propagation of thy zeal secure.

See commons, peers, and ministers of state,
In solemn council met, and deep debate!
What godlike enterprise is taking birth?
What wonder opens on the' expecting earth?
'Tis done! with loud applause the council rings!
Fix'd is the fate of whores and fiddle-strings!

Though bold these truths, thou, Muse, with truths like these
Wilt none offend whom 'tis a praise to please.
Let others flatter to be flatter'd; thou,
Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow.
How terrible it were to common-sense,
To write a Satire which gave none offence!
And since from life I take the draughts you see,
If men dislike them, do they censure me?
The fool and knave 'tis glorious to offend,
And godlike an attempt the world to mend;
The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall,
Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all.

How hard for real worth to gain its price!
A man shall make his fortune in a trice,
If bless'd with pliant, though but slender, sense,
Feign'd modesty, and real impudence.
A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace,
A curse within, a smile upon his face,

369

A beauteous sister, or convenient wife,
Are prizes in the lottery of life;
Genius and Virtue they will soon defeat,
And lodge you in the bosom of the great.
To merit is but to provide a pain
For men's refusing what you ought to gain.

May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you,
Whom my presaging thoughts already view,
By Walpole's conduct fired, and friendship graced,
Still higher in your prince's favour placed;
And lending here those awful counsels aid
Which you abroad with such success obey'd.
Bear this from one who holds your friendship dear:
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.

SATIRE IV. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR SPENCER COMPTON.

Round some fair tree the' ambitious woodbine grows,
And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs:
So sweet the verse, the' ambitious verse, should be,
(O pardon mine!) that hopes support from thee;
Thee, Compton, born o'er senates to preside,
Their dignity to raise, their counsels guide;
Deep to discern, and widely to survey,
And kingdoms' fates, without ambition, weigh;
Of distant virtues nice extremes to blend,
The crown's asserter, and the people's friend.
Nor dost thou scorn, amid sublimer views,
To listen to the labours of the Muse;
Thy smiles protect her, while thy talents fire,
And 'tis but half thy glory to inspire.

Vex'd at a public Fame so justly won,
The jealous Chremes is with spleen undone.
Chremes, for airy pensions of renown,
Devotes his service to the state and crown:
All schemes he knows, and, knowing, all improves;
Though Britain's thankless, still this patriot loves.
But patriots differ: some may shed their blood—
He drinks his coffee—for the public good;

370

Consults the sacred steam, and there foresees
What storms or sunshine Providence decrees;
Knows, for each day, the weather of our fate:
A quid-nunc is an almanac of state.

You smile, and think this statesman void of use:
Why may not time his secret worth produce?
Since apes can roast the choice Castanian nut,
Since steeds of genius are expert at put,
Since half the senate “Not content” can say,
Geese nations save, and puppies plots betray!

“What makes him model realms, and counsel kings?”
An incapacity for smaller things:
Poor Chremes can't conduct his own estate,
And thence has undertaken Europe's fate.

Gehenno leaves the realm to Chremes' skill,
And boldly claims a province higher still.
To raise a name, the' ambitious boy has got
At once a Bible and a shoulder-knot:
Deep in the secret, he looks through the whole,
And pities the dull rogue that saves his soul;
To talk with reverence you must take good heed,
Nor shock his tender reason with the Creed:
Howe'er, well-bred, in public he complies,
Obliging friends alone with blasphemies.

Peerage is poison, good estates are bad
For this disease: poor rogues run seldom mad.
Have not attainders brought unhoped relief,
And falling stocks quite cured an unbelief?
While the sun shines, Blunt talks with wondrous force;
But thunder mars small beer and weak discourse.
Such useful instruments the weather show,
Just as their mercury is high or low.
Health chiefly keeps an atheist in the dark;
A fever argues better than a Clarke:
Let but the logic in his pulse decay,
The Grecian he'll renounce, and learn to pray;
While Collins mourns, with an unfeigned zeal,
The' apostate youth who reason'd once so well.

Collins, who makes so merry with the Creed,
He almost thinks he disbelieves indeed;
But only thinks so: to give both their due,
Satan and he believe, and tremble too.

371

Of some for glory such the boundless rage,
That they're the blackest scandal of their age.

Narcissus the Tartarian club disclaims;
Nay, a Free-mason with some terror names;
Omits no duty; nor can Envy say,
He miss'd, these many years, the church or play.
He makes no noise in Parliament, 'tis true;
But pays his debts, and visit, when 'tis due,
His character and gloves are ever clean;
And then, he can out-bow the bowing dean;
A smile eternal on his lip he wears,
Which equally the wise and worthless shares.
In gay fatigues, this most undaunted chief,
Patient of idleness beyond belief,
Most charitably lends the town his face,
For ornament, in every public place;
As sure as cards, he to the' assembly comes,
And is the furniture of drawing-rooms:
When ombre calls, his hand and heart are free,
And, join'd to two, he fails not—to make three.
Narcissus is the glory of his race;
For who does nothing with a better grace?

To deck my list, by Nature were design'd
Such shining expletives of human-kind,
Who want, while through blank life they dream along,
Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.

To counterpoise this hero of the mode,
Some for renown are singular and odd;
What other men dislike, is sure to please
Of all mankind these dear antipodes;
Through pride, not malice, they run counter still,
And birth-days are their days of dressing ill.
Arbuthnot is a fool, and Foe a sage,
Sedley will fright you, E--- engage;
By nature streams run backward, flame descends,
Stones mount, and Sussex is the worst of friends.
They take their rest by day, and wake by night;
And blush, if you surprise them in the right;
If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware,
“A swan is white,” or “Queensberry is fair.”

Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt,
A fool in fashion, but a fool that's out:

372

His passion for absurdity's so strong,
He cannot bear a rival in the wrong.
Though wrong the mode, comply: more sense is shown
In wearing others' follies than your own.
If what is out of fashion most you prize,
Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.
But what in oddness can be more sublime
Than Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time?
His nice ambition lies in curious fancies:
His daughter's portion a rich shell enhances;
And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view,
Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!
How his eyes languish! how his thoughts adore
That painted coat which Joseph never wore!
He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin.
That touch'd the ruff that touch'd Queen Bess's chin.

“Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore,
Since that great plague that swept as many more,
Was ever year unbless'd as this?” he'll cry;
“It has not brought us one new butterfly!”
In times that suffer such learn'd men as these,
Unhappy Jersey! how came you to please?

Not gaudy butterflies are Lico's game:
But, in effect, his chase is much the same:
Warm in pursuit, he levees all the great,
Stanch to the foot of title and estate:
Where'er their lordships go, they never find
Or Lico or their shadows lag behind;
He sets them sure, where'er their lordships run,
Close at their elbows as a morning-dun;
As if their grandeur by contagion wrought,
And fame was, like a fever, to be caught.
But after seven years' dance, from place to place,
The Dane is more familiar with his grace.

Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer;
Or living pendant dangling at his ear,
For ever whispering secrets, which were blown
For months before by trumpets through the town?
Who'd be a glass, with flattering grimace,
Still to reflect the temper of his face;

373

Or happy pin, to stick upon his sleeve,
When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave;
Or cushion, when his heaviness shall please
To loll, or thump it, for his better ease;
Or a vile butt, for noon or night bespoke,
When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?
Who'd shake with laughter, though he could not find
His lordship's jest; or, if his nose broke wind,
For blessings to the gods profoundly bow;
That can cry, “Chimney-sweep!” or drive a plough?
With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close!
Scarce meaner they who terms like these impose.

But what's the tribe most likely to comply?
The men of ink, or ancient authors lie;
The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold
Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold.
All men they flatter, but themselves the most,
With deathless Fame, their everlasting boast:
For Fame no cully makes so much her jest,
As her old constant spark, the bard profess'd.
“Boyle shines in council, Mordaunt in the fight,
Pelham's magnificent: but I can write;
And what to my great soul like glory dear?”
Till some god whispers in his tingling ear,
That Fame's unwholesome, taken without meat;
And life is best sustain'd by what is eat:
Grown lean and wise, he curses what he writ,
And wishes all his wants were in his wit.

Ah! what avails it, when his dinner's lost,
That his triumphant name adorns a post?
Or that his shining page (provoking Fate!)
Defends sirloins, which sons of dulness eat?

What foe to verse without compassion hears,
What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears,
When the poor Muse, for less than half-a-crown,
A prostitute on every bulk in town,
With other whores undone, though not in print,
Clubs credit for Geneva in the Mint?

Ye bards! why will you sing, though uninspired?
Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admired?
Defunct by Phœbus' laws, beyond redress,
Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?

374

Bad metre, that excrescence of the head,
Like hair, will sprout, although the poet 's dead.

All other trades demand, verse-makers beg:
A dedication is a wooden leg:
A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fashion,
Exposes borrow'd brats to move compassion.
Though such myself, vile bards I discommend;
Nay, more, though gentle Damon is my friend.

“Is't then a crime to write?”—If talent rare
Proclaim the god, the crime is to forbear:
For some, though few, there are, large-minded men,
Who watch unseen the labours of the pen;
Who know the Muse's worth, and therefore court,
Their deeds her theme, their bounty her support;
Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit,—
My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.
Argyle true wit is studious to restore;
And Dorset smiles, if Phœbus smiled before:
Pembroke in years the long-loved arts admires,
And Henrietta like a muse inspires.

But, ah! not inspiration can obtain
That Fame which poets languish for in vain.
How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, strive
To grasp what no man can possess alive!
Fame's a reversion in which men take place
(O late reversion!) at their own decease.
This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well,
He starves his authors, that their works may sell.

That Fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry;
That wealth is Fame, another clan reply,
Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags,
And swell in just proportion to their bags.
Nor only the low-born, deform'd, and old,
Think glory nothing but the beams of gold:
The first young lord whom in the Mall you meet,
Shall match the veriest hunks in Lombard-street,

375

From rescued candles' ends who raised a sum,
And starves, to join a penny to a plum.
A beardless miser? 'Tis a guilt unknown
To former times, a scandal all our own.

Of ardent lovers the true modern band
Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land.
For love, young, noble, rich, Castalio dies;
Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes.
Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down;
No rival can prevail—but half-a-crown.

He glories to late times to be convey'd,
Not for the poor he has relieved, but made.
Not such ambition his great fathers fired,
When Harry conquer'd, and half France expired.
He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain;
Nay, a dull sheriff for his golden chain.

“Who'd be a slave?” the gallant colonel cries,
While love of glory sparkles from his eyes.
To deathless Fame he loudly pleads his right:
Just is his title,—for he will not fight.
All soldiers valour, all divines have grace,
As maids of honour beauty,—by their place.
But, when indulging on the last campaign,
His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain;
He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word,
A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid,
A soldier should be modest as a maid.
Fame is a bubble the reserved enjoy:
Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy.
'Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree;
But if you pay yourself, the world is free.

Were there no tongue to speak them but his own,
Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known.
Augustus' deeds!—If that ambiguous name
Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim,
Such is the prince's worth of whom I speak,
The Roman would not blush at the mistake.

A Danish dog of the Duke of Argyle.

376

SATIRE V. ON WOMEN.

O fairest of creation! last and best
Of all God's works! creature in whom excell'd
Whatever can to sight or thought be form'd
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!
How art thou lost!
—Milton.

Nor reigns Ambition in bold man alone;
Soft female hearts the rude invader own:
But there, indeed, it deals in nicer things
Than routing armies and dethroning kings.
Attend, and you discern it in the fair
Conduct a finger, or reclaim a hair;
Or roll the lucid orbit of an eye;
Or, in full joy, elaborate a sigh.

The sex we honour, though their faults we blame;
Nay, thank their faults for such a fruitful theme:
A theme, fair—! doubly kind to me,
Since satirizing those is praising thee;
Who wouldst not bear—too modestly refined—
A panegyric of a grosser kind.

Britannia's daughters, much more fair than nice,
Too fond of admiration, lose their price;
Worn in the public eye, give cheap delight
To throngs, and tarnish to the sated sight.
As unreserved and beauteous as the sun,
Through every sign of vanity they run;
Assemblies, parks, coarse feasts in city-halls,
Lectures and trials, plays, committees, balls,
Wells, Bedlams, executions, Smithfield scenes,
And fortune-tellers' caves, and lions' dens,
Taverns, Exchanges, Bridewells, drawing-rooms,
Instalments, pillories, coronations, tombs,
Tumblers, and funerals, puppet-shows, reviews,
Sales, races, rabbits, and (still stranger!) pews.

Clarinda's bosom burns, but burns for Fame;
And Love lies vanquish'd in a nobler flame.

377

Warm gleams of hope she now dispenses; then,
Like April suns, dives into clouds again:
With all her lustre now her lover warms;
Then, out of ostentation, hides her charms.
'Tis next her pleasure sweetly to complain,
And to be taken with a sudden pain;
Then she starts up, all ecstasy and bliss,
And is, sweet soul! just as sincere in this.
O how she rolls her charming eyes in spite,
And looks delightfully with all her might!
But, like our heroes, much more brave than wise,
She conquers for the triumph, not the prize.

Zara resembles Ætna crown'd with snows;
Without she freezes, and within she glows.
Twice ere the sun descends, with zeal inspired,
From the vain converse of the world retired,
She reads the psalms and chapters for the day
In—“Cleopatra,” or the last new play.
Thus gloomy Zara, with a solemn grace,
Deceives mankind, and hides behind here face.

Not far beneath her in renown is she
Who, through good-breeding, is ill company;
Whose manners will not let her larum cease;
Who thinks you are unhappy, when at peace;
To find you news who racks her subtle head,
And vows—that her great-grandfather is dead.

A dearth of words a woman need not fear;
But 'tis a task indeed to learn—to hear:
In that the skill of conversation lies;
That shows or makes you both polite and wise.

Xantippe cries, “Let nymphs who nought can say
Be lost in silence, and resign the day;
And let the guilty wife her guilt confess
By tame behaviour and a soft address!”
Through virtue, she refuses to comply
With all the dictates of humanity;
Through wisdom, she refuses to submit
To wisdom's rules, and raves to prove her wit;
Then, her unblemish'd honour to maintain,
Rejects her husband's kindness with disdain.
But if, by chance, an ill-adapted word
Drops from the lip of her unwary lord,
Her darling china, in a whirlwind sent,
Just intimates the lady's discontent.

378

Wine may, indeed, excite the meekest dame;
But keen Xantippe, scorning borrow'd flame,
Can vent her thunders, and her lightnings play,
O'er cooling gruel, and composing tea:
Nor rests by night, but, more sincere than nice,
She shakes the curtains with her kind advice:
Doubly like echo, sound is her delight,
And the last word is her eternal right.
Is 't not enough plagues, wars, and famines rise
To lash our crimes, but must our wives be wise?

Famine, plague, war, and an unnumber'd throng
Of guilt-avenging ills, to man belong:
What black, what ceaseless cares besiege our state!
What strokes we feel from Fancy and from Fate!
If Fate forbears us, Fancy strikes the blow;
We make misfortune,—suicides in woe.
Superfluous aid! unnecessary skill!
Is Nature backward to torment or kill?
How oft the noon, how oft the midnight, bell,
(That iron tongue of death!) with solemn knell,
On Folly's errands as we vainly roam,
Knocks at our hearts, and finds our thoughts from home!
Men drop so fast, ere life's mid stage we tread,
Few know so many friends alive as dead.
Yet, as immortal, in our up-hill chase
We press coy Fortune with unslacken'd pace:
Our ardent labours for the toys we seek,
Join night to day, and Sunday to the week:
Our very joys are anxious, and expire
Between satiety and fierce desire.
Now what reward for all this grief and toil?
But one,—a female friend's endearing smile;
A tender smile, our sorrows' only balm,
And, in life's tempest, the sad sailor's calm.

How have I seen a gentle nymph draw nigh,
Peace in her air, persuasion in her eye.
Victorious tenderness! it all o'ercame;
Husbands look'd mild, and savages grew tame.

The sylvan race our active nymphs pursue;
Man is not all the game they have in view:
In woods and fields their glory they complete:
There Master Betty leaps a five-barr'd gate;
While fair Miss Charles to toilets is confined,
Nor rashly tempts the barbarous sun and wind.

379

Some nymphs affect a more heroic breed,
And vault from hunters to the managed steed;
Command his prancings with a martial air;
And Foubert has the forming of the fair.

More than one steed must Delia's empire feel,
Who sits triumphant o'er the flying wheel;
And as she guides it through the' admiring throng,
With what an air she smacks the silken thong!
Graceful as John, she moderates the reins,
And whistles sweet her diuretic strains.
Sesostris-like, such charioteers as these
May drive six harness'd monarchs, if they please:
They drive, row, run, with love of glory smit,
Leap, swim, shoot flying, and pronounce on wit.

O'er the belle-lettre lovely Daphne reigns;
Again the god Apollo wears her chains:
With legs toss'd high, on her sophee she sits,
Vouchsafing audience to contending wits.
Of each performance she's the final test;
One act read o'er, she prophesies the rest;
And then, pronouncing with decisive air,
Fully convinces all the town—she's fair.
Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa's face,
How would her elegance of taste decrease!
Some ladies' judgment in their features lies,
And all their genius sparkles from their eyes.

But, “Hold,” she cries, “lampooner, have a care!
Must I want common-sense, because I'm fair?”
O no: see Stella: her eyes shine as bright
As if her tongue was never in the right;
And yet what real learning, judgment, fire!
She seems inspired, and can herself inspire.
How then (if malice ruled not all the fair)
Could Daphne publish, and could she forbear?
We grant that beauty is no bar to sense;
Nor is 't a sanction for impertinence.

Sempronia liked her man: and well she might;
The youth in person and in parts was bright;
Possess'd of every virtue, grace, and art,
That claims just empire o'er the female heart:

380

He met her passion, all her sighs return'd,
And in full rage of youthful ardour burn'd:
Large his possessions, and beyond her own;
Their bliss the theme and envy of the town.
The day was fix'd, when, with one acre more,
In stepp'd deform'd, debauch'd, diseased three-score.
The fatal sequel I, through shame, forbear:
Of pride and avarice who can cure the fair?

Man's rich with little, were his judgment true:
Nature is frugal, and her wants are few;
Those few wants answer'd bring sincere delights;
But fools create themselves new appetites:
Fancy and Pride seek things at vast expense,
Which relish not to Reason, nor to Sense.
When surfeit or unthankfulness destroys,
In Nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys,
In Fancy's airy land of noise and show,—
Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures, grow,—
Like cats in air-pumps, to subsist we strive
On joys too thin to keep the soul alive.

Lemira's sick: make haste; the doctor call!—
He comes; but where's his patient? At the ball.
The doctor stares; her woman curtsies low,
And cries, “My lady, sir, is always so:
Diversions put her maladies to flight:
True, she can't stand, but she can dance all night.
I've known my lady (for she loves a tune)
For fevers take an opera in June:
And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold,
A midnight park is sovereign for a cold:
With colics breakfasts of green fruit agree;
With indigestions, supper just at three.”
“A strange alternative!” replies Sir Hans:
“Must women have a doctor or a dance?
Though sick to death, abroad they safely roam;
But droop and die, in perfect health, at home:
For want—but not of health, are ladies ill;
And tickets cure beyond the doctor's bill.”

Alas, my heart! how languishingly fair
Yon lady lolls! with what a tender air!
Pale as a young dramatic author, when
O'er darling lines fell Cibber waves his pen.

381

Is her lord angry, or has Veny chid?
Dead is her father, or the masque forbid?
“Late sitting up has turn'd her roses white.”
Why went she not to bed? “Because 'twas night.”
Did she, then, dance or play? “Nor this, nor that.”
Well, night soon steals away in pleasing chat.
“No; all alone, her prayers she rather chose,
Than be that wretch to sleep till morning rose.”
Then Lady Cynthia, mistress of the shade,
Goes, with the fashionable owls, to bed.
This her pride covets; this her health denies:
Her soul is silly, but her body's wise.

Others with curious arts dim charms revive,
And triumph in the bloom of fifty-five.
You, in the morning, a fair nymph invite;
To keep her word, a brown one comes at night:
Next day she shines in glossy black; and then
Revolves into her native red again:
Like a dove's neck, she shifts her transient charms,
And is her own dear rival in your arms.

But one admirer has the painted lass;
Nor finds that one but in her looking-glass.
Yet Laura's beautiful to such excess,
That all her art scarce makes her please us less.
To deck the female cheek He only knows
Who paints less fair the lily and the rose.

How gay they smile! Such blessings Nature pours,
O'erstock'd mankind enjoy but half her stores:
In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen,
She rears her flowers, and spreads her velvet green:
Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace,
And waste their music on the savage race.
Is Nature, then, a niggard of her bliss?
Repine we guiltless in a world like this?
But our lewd tastes her lawful charms refuse,
And painted Art's depraved allurements choose.
Such Fulvia's passion for the town: fresh air
(An odd effect!) gives vapours to the fair;
Green fields, and shady groves, and crystal springs,
And larks, and nightingales, are odious things;
But smoke, and dust, and noise, and crowds, delight;
And to be press'd to death, transports her quite:

382

Where silver rivulets play through flowery meads,
And woodbines give their sweets, and limes their shades,
Black kennels' absent odours she regrets,
And stops her nose at beds of violets.

Is stormy life preferr'd to the serene?
Or is the public to the private scene?
Retired, we tread a smooth and open way;
Through briers and brambles, in the world, we stray,—
Stiff opposition, and perplex'd debate,
And thorny care, and rank and stinging hate,
Which choke our passage, our career control,
And wound the firmest temper of our soul.
O sacred solitude! divine retreat!
Choice of the prudent! envy of the great!
By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade,
We court fair Wisdom, that celestial maid:
The genuine offspring of her loved embrace,
(Strangers on earth!) are Innocence and Peace.
There, from the ways of men laid safe ashore,
We smile to hear the distant tempest roar:
There, bless'd with health, with business unperplex'd,
This life we relish, and insure the next:
There too the Muses sport; these numbers free,
Pierian Eastbury! I owe to thee.

There sport the Muses; but not there alone:
Their sacred force Amelia feels in town.
Nought but a genius can a genius fit;
A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit:
Both wits,—though miracles are said to cease,—
Three days, three wondrous days, they lived in peace;
With the fourth sun a warm dispute arose,
On D'Urfey's poesy and Bunyan's prose:
The learned war both wage with equal force,
And the fifth morn concluded the divorce.

Phœbe, though she possesses nothing less,
Is proud of being rich in happiness;
Laboriously pursues delusive toys,
Content with pains, since they're reputed joys.
With what well-acted transport will she say,
“Well, sure, we were so happy yesterday!
And then that charming party for to-morrow!”
Though, well she knows, 't will languish into sorrow!

383

But she dares never boast the present hour;
So gross that cheat, it is beyond her power:
For, such is or our weakness or our curse,
Or rather, such our crime,—which still is worse,—
The present moment, like a wife, we shun,
And ne'er enjoy, because it is our own.

Pleasures are few, and fewer we enjoy:
Pleasure, like quicksilver, is bright and coy;
We strive to grasp it with our utmost skill,
Still it eludes us, and it glitters still.
If seized at last, compute your mighty gains:
What is it but rank poison in your veins?

As Flavia in her glass an angel spies,
Pride whispers in her ear pernicious lies;
Tells her, while she surveys a face so fine,
There's no satiety of charms divine.
Hence, if her lover yawns, all changed appears
Her temper, and she melts (sweet soul!) in tears.
She, fond and young, last week her wish enjoy'd,
In soft amusement all the night employ'd;
The morning came, when Strephon, waking, found
(Surprising sight!) his bride in sorrow drown'd.
“What miracle,” says Strephon, “makes thee weep?”
“Ah, barbarous man!” she cries, “how could you—sleep?”

Men love a mistress, as they love a feast:
How grateful one to touch, and one to taste!
Yet sure there is a certain time of day,
We wish our mistress, and our meat, away:
But soon the sated appetites return;
Again our stomachs crave, our bosoms burn.
Eternal love let man, then, never swear:
Let women never triumph, nor despair;
Nor praise nor blame too much the warm or chill:
Hunger and love are foreign to the will.

There is indeed a passion more refined,
For those few nymphs whose charms are of the mind:
But not of that unfashionable set
Is Phyllis:—Phyllis and her Damon met.
Eternal love exactly hits her taste;
Phyllis demands eternal love at least.
Embracing Phyllis with soft-smiling eyes,
“Eternal love I vow,” the swain replies:
“But say, my all, my mistress, and my friend!
What day next week the' eternity shall end?”

384

Some nymphs prefer astronomy to love;
Elope from mortal man, and range above
The fair philosopher to Rowley flies,
Where in a box the whole creation lies:
She sees the planets in their turns advance,
And scorns, Poitiers, thy sublunary dance:
Of Desaguliers she bespeaks fresh air:
And Whiston has engagements with the fair.
What vain experiments Sophronia tries!
'Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dies.
But though to-day this rage of science reigns,
(O fickle sex!) soon end her learned pains.
Lo! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got,
Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot.

To --- turn: she never took the height
Of Saturn, yet is ever in the right.
She strikes each point with native force of mind,
While puzzled Learning blunders far behind;
Graceful to sight, and elegant to thought;
The great are vanquish'd, and the wise are taught.
Her breeding finish'd, and her temper sweet;
When serious, easy; and when gay, discreet;
In glittering scenes, o'er her own heart severe:
In crowds, collected; and in courts, sincere;
Sincere and warm, with zeal well-understood,
She takes a noble pride in doing good;
Yet, not superior to her sex's cares,
The mode she fixes by the gown she wears;
Of silks and china she's the last appeal;
In these great points she leads the commonweal;
And if disputes of empire rise between
Mechlin, the queen of lace, and Colberteen,
'Tis doubt, 'tis darkness! till suspended Fate
Assumes her nod, to close the grand debate.
When such her mind, why will the fair express
Their emulation only in their dress?

But, O, the nymph that mounts above the skies,
And, gratis, clears religious mysteries,
Resolved the church's welfare to insure,
And make her family a sine-cure!

385

The theme divine at cards she'll not forget,
But takes-in texts of scripture at piquet;
In those licentious meetings acts the prude,
And thanks her Maker that her cards are good.
What angels would those be who thus excel
In theologies, could they sew as well!
Yet why should not the fair her text pursue?
Can she more decently the doctor woo?
'Tis hard, too, she who makes no use but chat
Of her religion, should be barr'd in that.

Isaac, a brother of the canting strain,
When he has knock'd at his own skull in vain,
To beauteous Marcia often will repair
With a dark text, to light it at the fair.
O how his pious soul exults to find
Such love for holy men in woman-kind!
Charm'd with her learning, with what rapture he
Hangs on her bloom, like an industrious bee,
Hums round about her, and with all his power
Extracts sweet wisdom from so fair a flower!

The young and gay declining, Appia flies
At nobler game,—the mighty and the wise:
By nature more an eagle than a dove,
She impiously prefers the world to love.

Can wealth give happiness? Look round, and see:
What gay distress! what splendid misery!
Whatever Fortune lavishly can pour,
The mind annihilates, and calls for more.
Wealth is a cheat; believe not what it says;
Like any lord it promises—and pays.
How will the miser startle, to be told
Of such a wonder as insolvent gold!
What Nature wants has an intrinsic weight:
All more is but the fashion of the plate,
Which, for one moment, charms the fickle view:
It charms us now; anon we cast anew,
To some fresh birth of Fancy more inclined:
Then wed not acres, but a noble mind.

Mistaken lovers, who make worth their care,
And think accomplishments will win the fair!
The fair, 'tis true, by genius should be won,
As flowers unfold their beauties to the sun:
And yet in female scales a fop outweighs,
And Wit must wear the willow and the bays.

386

Nought shines so bright in vain Liberia's eye
As riot, impudence, and perfidy;
The youth of fire, that has drunk deep, and play'd,
And kill'd his man, and triumph'd o'er his maid.
For him, as yet unhang'd, she spreads her charms;
Snatches the dear destroyer to her arms;
And amply gives (though treated long amiss)
The “man of merit” his revenge in this:—
If you resent, and wish a woman ill,
But turn her o'er one moment to her will.

The languid lady next appears in state,
Who was not born to carry her own weight:
She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid
To her own stature lifts the feeble maid.
Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom,
She, by just stages, journeys round the room:
But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs
To scale the Alps.—that is, ascend the stairs.
“My fan!” let others say, who laugh at toil;
“Fan! hood! glove! scarf!” is her laconic style;
And that is spoke with such a dying fall
That Betty rather sees, than hears, the call:
The motion of her lips, and meaning eye,
Piece out the' idea her faint words deny.
O, listen with attention most profound!
Her voice is but the shadow of a sound.
And help! O, help! her spirits are so dead,
One hand scarce lifts the other to her head.
If there a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er,
She pants, she sinks away, and is no more!
Let the robust and the gigantic carve;
Life is not worth so much; she'd rather starve:
But chew she must herself;—ah cruel fate,
That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat!

An antidote in female caprice lies
(Kind Heaven!) against the poison of their eyes.

Thalestris triumphs in a manly mien;
Loud is her accent, and her phrase obscene.
In fair and open dealing where's the shame?
What Nature dares to give, she dares to name.
This “honest fellow” is sincere and plain,
And justly gives the jealous husband pain:
(Vain is the task to petticoats assign'd,
If wanton language shows a naked mind:)

387

And now and then, to grace her eloquence,
An oath supplies the vacancies of sense.
Hark! the shrill notes transpierce the yielding air,
And teach the neighbouring echoes how to swear.
“By Jove” is faint, and for the simple swain;
She on the Christian system is profane.
But though the volley rattles in your ear,
Believe her dress,—she's not a grenadier.
If thunder's awful, how much more our dread
When Jove deputes a lady in his stead!
A lady?—pardon my mistaken pen:
A shameless woman is the worst of men.

Few to good breeding make a just pretence:
Good breeding is the blossom of good sense;
The last result of an accomplish'd mind,
With outward grace, the body's virtue, join'd.
A violated decency now reigns;
And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains.
With Chinese painters modern toasts agree;
The point they aim at is deformity.
They throw their persons with a hoyden air
Across the room, and toss into the chair.
So far their commerce with mankind is gone,
They for our manners have exchanged their own.
The modest look, the castigated grace,
The gentle movement, and slow-measured pace,
For which her lovers died, her parents pray'd,
Are indecorums with the modern maid.
Stiff forms are bad; but let not worse intrude,
Nor conquer Art and Nature, to be rude.
Modern good-breeding carry to its height,
And lady Dashwood's self will be polite.

Ye rising fair! ye bloom of Britain's isle!
When high-born Anna, with a soften'd smile,
Leads-on your train, and sparkles at your head,
What seems most hard is, not to be well-bred.
Her bright example with success pursue,
And all but adoration is your due.

“But adoration? Give me something more,”
Cries Lyce, on the borders of threescore.
Nought treads so silent as the foot of Time;
Hence we mistake our autumn for our prime.

388

'Tis greatly wise to know, before we're told,
The melancholy news, that we grow old.
Autumnal Lyce carries in her face
Memento mori to each public place.
O how your beating breast a mistress warms
Who looks through spectacles to see your charms!
While rival undertakers hover round,
And with his spade the sexton marks the ground,
Intent not on her own, but others', doom,
She plans new conquests, and defrauds the tomb.
In vain the cock has summon'd sprites away,
She walks at noon, and blasts the bloom of day.
Gay rainbow silks her mellow charms infold,
And nought of Lyce but herself is old.
Her grizzled locks assume a smirking grace,
And Art has levell'd her deep-furrow'd face.
Her strange demand no mortal can approve;
We'll ask her blessing, but can't ask her love.
She grants, indeed, a lady may decline
(All ladies but herself) at ninety-nine!

O how unlike her was the sacred age
Of prudent Portia!—Her grey hairs engage
Whose thoughts are suited to her life's decline:
Virtue's the paint that can with wrinkles shine.
That, and that only, can old age sustain;
Which yet all wish, nor know they wish for pain.
Not numerous are our joys, when life is new;
And yearly some are falling of the few:
But when we conquer life's meridian stage,
And downward tend into the vale of age,
They drop apace; by Nature some decay,
And some the blasts of Fortune sweep away;
Till, naked quite of happiness, aloud
We call for Death, and shelter in a shroud.

Where's Portia now?—But Portia left behind
Two lovely copies of her form and mind.
What heart untouch'd their early grief can view,
Like blushing rose-buds dipp'd in morning-dew?
Who into shelter takes their tender bloom,
And forms their minds to flee from ills to come?
The mind, when turn'd adrift, no rules to guide,
Drives at the mercy of the wind and tide;
Fancy and Passion toss it to and fro,
Awhile torment, and then quite sink in woe.

389

Ye beauteous orphans, since in silent dust
Your best example lies, my precepts trust.
Life swarms with ills; the boldest are afraid;
Where, then, is safety for a tender maid?
Unfit for conflict, round beset with woes,
And man, whom least she fears, her worst of foes;
When kind, most cruel; when obliged the most,
The least obliging; and by favours lost.
Cruel by nature, they for kindness hate,
And scorn you for those ills themselves create.
If on your fame our sex a blot has thrown,
'Twill ever stick, through malice of your own.
Most hard! In pleasing your chief glory lies;
And yet from pleasing your chief dangers rise.
Then please the best; and know, for men of sense,
Your strongest charms are native innocence.
Arts on the mind, like paint upon the face,
Fright him that's worth your love from your embrace.
In simple manners all the secret lies:
Be kind and virtuous, you 'll be bless'd and wise.
Vain show and noise intoxicate the brain,
Begin with giddiness, and end in pain.
Affect not empty fame and idle praise,
Which all those wretches I describe betrays.
Your sex's glory 'tis, to shine unknown:
Of all applause, be fondest of your own.
Beware the fever of the mind, that thirst
With which the age is eminently cursed:
To drink of pleasure but inflames desire;
And abstinence alone can quench the fire,
Take pain from life, and terror from the tomb,
Give peace in hand, and promise bliss to come.

Lap-dog.

SATIRE VI. ON WOMEN.

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LADY ELIZABETH GERMAIN.

Interdum tamen et vocem Comœdia tollit.
—Horatius De Arte Poeticâ, 93.

I sought a patroness, but sought in vain.
Apollo whisper'd in my ear, “Germain.”—
“I know her not.”—“Your reason's somewhat odd;
Who knows his patron now?” replied the god.

390

“Men write, to me, and to the world, unknown;
Then steal great names, to shield them from the town.
Detected Worth, like Beauty disarray'd,
To covert flies, of Praise itself afraid.
Should she refuse to patronize your lays,
In vengeance write a volume in her praise.
Nor think it hard so great a length to run;
When such the theme, 'twill easily be done.”

Ye fair! to draw your excellence at length,
Exceeds the narrow bounds of human strength:
You here in miniature your picture see;
Nor hope from Zincke more justice than from me.
My portraits grace your mind, as his your side:
His portraits will inflame, mine quench, your pride.
He's dear, you frugal: choose my cheaper lay,
And be your reformation all my pay.

Lavinia is polite, but not profane;
To church as constant as to Drury-Lane.
She decently, in form, pays Heaven its due,
And makes a civil visit to her pew.
Her lifted fan, to give a solemn air,
Conceals her face, which passes for a prayer:
Curtsies to curtsies, then, with grace succeed;
Not one the fair omits, but at the Creed.
Or if she joins the service, 'tis to speak;
Through dreadful silence the pent heart might break;
Untaught to bear it, women talk away
To God himself, and fondly think they pray.
But sweet their accent, and their air refined;
For they're before their Maker—and mankind.
When ladies once are proud of praying well,
Satan himself will toll the parish bell.

Acquainted with the world, and quite well-bred,
Drusa receives her visitants in bed;
But, chaste as ice, this Vesta, to defy
The very blackest tongue of calumny,
When from the sheets her lovely form she lifts,
She begs you just would turn you, while she shifts.

Those charms are greatest which decline the sight:
That makes the banquet poignant and polite.
There is no woman, where there's no reserve;
And 'tis on plenty your poor lovers starve.

391

But, with a modern fair, meridian merit
Is a fierce thing they call “a nymph of spirit.”
Mark well the rollings of her flaming eye;
And tread on tiptoe, if you dare draw nigh.
“Or if you take a lion by the beard,
Or dare defy the fell Hyrcanian pard,
Or arm'd rhinoceros, or rough Russian bear,”
First make your will, and then converse with her.
This lady glories in profuse expense,
And thinks distraction is magnificence.
To beggar her gallant, is some delight;
To be more fatal still, is exquisite.
Had ever nymph such reason to be glad?
In duel fell two lovers; one ran mad.
Her foes their honest execrations pour:
Her lovers only should detest her more.

Flavia is constant to her old gallant,
And generously supports him in his want.
But marriage is a fetter, is a snare,
A hell, no lady so polite can bear.
She's faithful, she's observant, and with pains
Her angel-brood of bastards she maintains.
Nor least advantage has the fair to plead,
But that of guilt, above the marriage-bed.

Amasia hates a prude, and scorns restraint;
Whate'er she is, she'll not appear a saint.
Her soul superior flies formality:
So gay her air, her conduct is so free,
Some might suspect the nymph not over-good;—
Nor would they be mistaken, if they should.

Unmarried Abra puts on formal airs;
Her cushion's thread-bare with her constant prayers.
Her only grief is, that she cannot be
At once engaged in prayer and charity.
And this, to do her justice, must be said,—
“Who would not think that Abra was a maid?”

Some ladies are too beauteous to be wed:
For where's the man that's worthy of their bed?
If no disease reduce her pride before,
Lavinia will be ravish'd at threescore.
Then she submits to venture in the dark;
And nothing now is wanting—but her spark.

392

Lucia thinks happiness consists in state:
She weds an idiot, but she eats in plate.
The goods of fortune, which her soul possess,
Are but the ground of unmade happiness,
The rude material: wisdom add to this,
Wisdom, the sole artificer of bliss;
She from herself, if so compell'd by need,
Of thin content can draw the subtle thread;
But (no detraction to her sacred skill)
If she can work in gold, 'tis better still.

If Tullia had been bless'd with half her sense,
None could too much admire her excellence:
But since she can make error shine so bright,
She thinks it vulgar to defend the right.
With understanding she is quite o'er-run,
And by too great accomplishments undone:
With skill she vibrates her eternal tongue,
For ever most divinely in the wrong.

Naked in nothing should a woman be,
But veil her very wit with modesty.
Let man discover, let not her display,
But yield her charms of mind with sweet delay.

For pleasure form'd, perversely some believe,
To make themselves important, men must grieve.
Lesbia the fair, to fire her jealous lord,
Pretends the fop she laughs at is adored.
In vain she's proud of secret innocence;
The fact she feigns were scarce a worse offence.

Mira, endow'd with every charm to bless,
Has no design but on her husband's peace:
He loved her much; and greatly was he moved
At small inquietudes in her he loved.
“How charming this!”—The pleasure lasted long;
Now every day the fits come thick and strong.
At last he found the charmer only feign'd;
And was diverted when he should be pain'd.
What greater vengeance have the gods in store?
How tedious life, now she can plague no more!
She tries a thousand arts; but none succeed:
She's forced a fever to procure indeed.
Thus strictly proved this virtuous, loving wife,
Her husband's pain was dearer than her life.

Anxious Melania rises to my view,
Who never thinks her lover pays his due:

393

Visit, present, treat, flatter, and adore;
Her majesty to-morrow calls for more.
His wounded ears complaints eternal fill,
As unoil'd hinges, querulously shrill.
“You went last night with Celia to the ball.”
You prove it false. “Not go! that's worst of all.”
Nothing can please her, nothing not inflame;
And arrant contradictions are the same.
Her lover must be sad, to please her spleen;
His mirth is an inexpiable sin:
For of all rivals that can pain her breast,
There's one that wounds far deeper than the rest;
To wreck her quiet, the most dreadful shelf
Is if her lover dares enjoy himself.

And this, because she's exquisitely fair:
Should I dispute her beauty, how she'd stare!
How would Melania be surprised to hear
She's quite deform'd! And yet the case is clear;
What's female beauty, but an air divine,
Through which the mind's all-gentle graces shine?
They, like the sun, irradiate all between;
The body charms because the soul is seen.
Hence, men are often captives of a face,
They know not why, of no peculiar grace:
Some forms, though bright, no mortal man can bear;
Some none resist, though not exceeding fair.

Aspasia's highly born, and nicely bred,
Of taste refined, in life and manners read;
Yet reaps no fruit from her superior sense,
But to be teased by her own excellence.
“Folks are so awkward! things so unpolite!”
She's elegantly pain'd from morn till night.
Her delicacy's shock'd where'er she goes;
Each creature's imperfections are her woes.
Heaven by its favour has the fair distress'd,
And pour'd such blessings—that she can't be bless'd.

Ah! why so vain, though blooming in thy spring,
Thou shining, frail, adored, and wretched thing?
Old age will come; disease may come before:
Fifteen is full as mortal as threescore.
Thy fortune, and thy charms, may soon decay:
But grant these fugitives prolong their stay,
Their basis totters, their foundation shakes;
Life, that supports them, in a moment breaks.

394

Then wrought into the soul let virtues shine;
The ground eternal, as the work Divine.

Julia's a manager; she's born for rule,
And knows her wiser husband is a fool;
Assemblies holds, and spins the subtle thread
That guides the lover to his fair one's bed;
For difficult amours can smooth the way,
And tender letters dictate or convey.
But if deprived of such important cares,
Her wisdom condescends to less affairs:
For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme,
Nor take her tea without a stratagem;
Presides o'er trifles with a serious face;
Important, by the virtue of grimace.

Ladies supreme among amusements reign,
By nature born to soothe and entertain.
Their prudence in a share of folly lies:
Why will they be so weak as to be wise?

Syrena is for ever in extremes,
And with a vengeance she commends or blames.
Conscious of her discernment, which is good,
She strains too much to make it understood.
Her judgment just, her sentence is too strong:
Because she's right, she's ever in the wrong.

Brunetta's wise in actions great and rare;
But scorns on trifles to bestow her care.
Thus every hour Brunetta is to blame,
Because the' occasion is beneath her aim.
Think nought a trifle, though it small appear:
Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,
And trifles life. Your care to trifles give;
Or you may die before you truly live.

Go breakfast with Alicia, there you'll see
Simplex munditiis to the last degree:
Unlaced her stays, her night-gown is untied,
And what she has of head-dress is aside.
She drawls her words, and waddles in her pace;
Unwash'd her hands, and much be-snuff'd her face.
A nail uncut, and head uncomb'd, she loves;
And would draw on jack-boots as soon as gloves.
Gloves by Queen Bess's maidens might be miss'd;
Her blessed eyes ne'er saw a female fist.
Lovers, beware! To wound how can she fail
With scarlet finger and long jetty nail?

395

For Hervey, the first wit she cannot be;
Nor, cruel Richmond, the first toast, for thee.
Since full each other station of renown,
Who would not be the greatest trapes in town?
Women were made to give our eyes delight;
A female sloven is an odious sight.

Fair Isabella is so fond of fame,
That her dear self is her eternal theme.
Through hopes of contradiction, oft she'll say,
“Methinks I look so wretchedly to-day!”
When most the world applauds you, most beware;
'Tis often less a blessing than a snare.
Distrust mankind: with your own heart confer;
And dread even there to find a flatterer.
The breath of others raises our renown;
Our own as surely blows the pageant down.
Take up no more than you by worth can claim,
Lest soon you prove a bankrupt in your fame.

But own I must, in this perverted age,
Who most deserve can't always most engage.
So far is worth from making glory sure,
It often hinders what it should procure.
Whom praise we most? the virtuous, brave, and wise?
No; wretches whom in secret we despise.
And who so blind as not to see the cause?
No rivals raised by such discreet applause;
And yet of credit it lays-in a store,
By which our spleen may wound true worth the more.

Ladies there are who think one crime is all:
Can women, then, no way but backward fall?
So sweet is that one crime they don't pursue,
To pay its loss, they think all others few.
Who hold that crime so dear, must never claim
Of injured modesty the sacred name.

But Clio thus: “What! railing without end?
Mean task! How much more generous to commend!”
Yes, to commend as you are wont to do,
My kind instructor, and example too.

396

“Daphnis,” says Clio, “has a charming eye:
What pity 'tis her shoulder is awry!
Aspasia's shape, indeed—But then her air—
The man has parts who finds destruction there.
Almeria's wit has something that's divine;
And wit's enough:—how few in all things shine!
Selina serves her friends, relieves the poor:—
Who was it said, Selina's near threescore?
At Lucia's match I from my soul rejoice;
The world congratulates so wise a choice:
His lordship's rent-roll is exceeding great—
But mortgages will sap the best estate.
In Shirley's form might cherubims appear;
But then—she has a freckle on her ear.”
Without a but, Hortensia she commends,
The first of women, and the best of friends;
Owns her in person, wit, fame, virtue, bright:
But how comes this to pass?—She died last night.

Thus nymphs commend, who yet at Satire rail:
Indeed, that's needless, if such praise prevail.
And whence such praise? Our virulence is thrown
On others' fame, through fondness for our own.

Of rank and riches proud, Cleora frowns;
For are not coronets akin to crowns?
Her greedy eye, and her sublime address,
The height of avarice and pride confess.
You seek perfections worthy of her rank;
Go, seek for her perfections at the Bank.
By wealth unquench'd, by reason uncontroll'd,
For ever burns her sacred thirst of gold;
As fond of five-pence as the veriest cit,
And quite as much detested as a wit.

Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine?
Can we dig peace or wisdom from the mine?
Wisdom to gold prefer; for 'tis much less
To make our fortune than our happiness;
That happiness which great ones often see,
With rage and wonder, in a low degree;
Themselves unbless'd. The poor are only poor;
But what are they who droop amid their store?
Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state:
The happy only are the truly great.
Peasants enjoy like appetites with kings,
And those best satisfied with cheapest things.

397

Could both our Indies buy but one new sense,
Our envy would be due to large expense.
Since not, those pomps which to the great belong
Are but poor arts to mark them from the throng.
See how they beg an alms of flattery!
They languish: O, support them with a lie!
A decent competence we fully taste;
It strikes our sense, and gives a constant feast.
More we perceive by dint of thought alone:
The rich must labour to possess their own,
To feel their great abundance; and request
Their humble friends to help them to be bless'd,
To see their treasures, hear their glory told,
And aid the wretched impotence of gold.

But some—great souls, and touch'd with warmth divine!—
Give gold a price, and teach its beams to shine.
All hoarded treasures they repute a load;
Nor think their wealth their own, till well bestow'd.
Grand reservoirs of public happiness,
Through secret streams diffusively they bless;
And, while their bounties glide conceal'd from view,
Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes too.
But Satire is my task; and these destroy
Her gloomy province and malignant joy.
Help me, ye misers! help me to complain,
And blast our common enemy, Germain:
But our invectives must despair success;
For, next to praise, she values nothing less.

What picture's yonder, loosen'd from its frame?
Or is't Asturia, that affected dame?
The brightest forms through affectation fade
To strange new things, which Nature never made.
Frown not, ye fair! So much your sex we prize,
We hate those arts that take you from our eyes.
In Albucinda's native grace is seen
What you, who labour at perfection, mean.
Short is the rule, and to be learnt with ease:—
Retain your gentle selves, and you must please.
Here might I sing of Memmia's mincing mien,
And all the movements of the soft machine:
How two red lips affected zephyrs blow,
To cool the bohea, and inflame the beau;

398

While one white finger and a thumb conspire
To lift the cup, and make the world admire.

Tea! how I tremble at thy fatal stream!
As Lethe, dreadful to the Love of Fame.
What devastations on thy banks are seen!
What shades of mighty names which once have been!
A hecatomb of characters supplies
Thy painted altars' daily sacrifice.
Hervey, Pearce, Blount, aspersed by thee, decay,
As grains of finest sugars melt away,
And recommend thee more to mortal taste:
Scandal's the sweetener of a female feast.

But this inhuman triumph shall decline,
And thy revolting Naiads call for wine:
Spirits no longer shall serve under thee;
But reign in thy own cup, exploded Tea!
Citronia's nose declares thy ruin nigh;
And who dares give Citronia's nose the lie?

The ladies long at men of drink exclaim'd,
And what impair'd both health and virtue blamed.
At length, to rescue man, the generous lass
Stole from her consort the pernicious glass;
As glorious as the British queen renown'd,
Who suck'd the poison from her husband's wound.

Nor to the glass alone are nymphs inclined,
But every bolder vice of bold mankind.

O, Juvenal, for thy severer rage,
To lash the ranker follies of our age!

Are there, among the females of our isle,
Such faults at which it is a fault to smile?
There are. Vice, once by modest Nature chain'd
And legal ties, expatiates unrestrain'd;
Without thin decency held up to view,
Naked she stalks o'er law and gospel too.
Our matrons lead such exemplary lives,
Men sigh in vain for none but for their wives;
Who marry to be free, to range the more,
And wed one man to wanton with a score.
Abroad too kind, at home 'tis steadfast hate,
And one eternal tempest of debate.

399

What foul eruptions from a look most meek!
What thunders bursting from a dimpled cheek!
Their passions bear it with a lofty hand;
But then their reason is at due command.
Is there whom you detest, and seek his life?
Trust no soul with the secret—but his wife.
Wives wonder that their conduct I condemn,
And ask, What kindred is a spouse to them?

What swarms of amorous grandmothers I see!
And misses, ancient in iniquity!
What blasting whispers, and what loud declaiming!
What lying, drinking, bawding, swearing, gaming!
Friendship so cold, such warm incontinence;
Such griping avarice, such profuse expense;
Such dead devotion, such a zeal for crimes;
Such licensed ill, such masquerading times;
Such venal faith, such misapplied applause;
Such flatter'd guilt, and such inverted laws;
Such dissolution through the whole I find,
'Tis not a world, but chaos of mankind.

Since Sundays have no balls, the well-dress'd belle
Shines in the pew, but smiles to hear of hell;
And casts an eye of sweet disdain on all
Who listen less to Collins than St. Paul.
Atheists have been but rare; since Nature's birth,
Till now, she-atheists ne'er appear'd on earth.
Ye men of deep researches, say, whence springs
This daring character in timorous things?
Who start at feathers, from an insect fly;
A match for nothing—but the Deity.

But, not to wrong the fair, the Muse must own
In this pursuit they court not Fame alone;
But join to that a more substantial view,
“From thinking free, to be free agents too.”

They strive with their own hearts, and keep them down,
In complaisance to all the fools in town.
O how they tremble at the name of “prude,”
And die with shame at thought of being “good!”
For, what will Artimis, the rich and gay,—
What will the wits, that is, the coxcombs,—say?
They Heaven defy, to earth's vile dregs a slave;
Through cowardice most execrably brave.
With our own judgments durst we to comply,
In virtue should we live, in glory die.

400

Rise then, my Muse, in honest fury rise:
They dread a Satire, who defy the Skies.

Atheists are few: most nymphs a Godhead own,
And nothing but His attributes dethrone.
From atheists far, they steadfastly believe
God is, and is Almighty—to forgive.
His other excellence they'll not dispute;
But mercy, sure, is his chief attribute.
Shall pleasures of a short duration chain
A lady's soul in everlasting pain?
Will the great Author us poor worms destroy
For now and then a sip of transient joy?
No; He's for ever in a smiling mood;
He's like themselves; or how could He be good?
And they blaspheme, who blacker schemes suppose.—
Devoutly, thus, Jehovah they depose,
The pure, the just! and set up, in his stead,
A deity that's perfectly well-bred.

“Dear Tillotson! be sure, the best of men;
Nor thought he more, than thought great Origen.
Though once upon a time he misbehaved,—
Poor Satan! doubtless, he'll at length be saved.
Let priests do something for their one in ten;
It is their trade; so far they're honest men.
Let them cant on, since they have got the knack;
And dress their notions, like themselves, in black;
Fright us with terrors of a world unknown
From joys of this, to keep them all their own.
Of earth's fair fruits, indeed, they claim a fee;
But then they leave our untithed virtue free.
Virtue's a pretty thing to make a show:
Did ever mortal write like Rochefoucault?”
Thus pleads the devil's fair apologist,
And, pleading, safely enters on his list.

Let angel-forms angelic truths maintain;
Nature disjoins the beauteous and profane.

401

For what's true beauty but fair Virtue's face,
Virtue made visible in outward grace?
She, then, that's haunted with an impious mind,
The more she charms, the more she shocks mankind.

But charms decline: the fair long vigils keep:
They sleep no more! Quadrille “has murder'd sleep.”
“Poor Kemp!” cries Livia; “I have not been there
These two nights; the poor creature will despair.
I hate a crowd—but to do good, you know—
And people of condition should bestow.”
Convinced, o'ercome, to Kemp's grave matrons run;
Now set a daughter, and now stake a son;
Let health, fame, temper, beauty, fortune, fly;
And beggar half their race—through charity.

Immortal were we, or else mortal quite,
I less should blame this criminal delight:
But since the gay assembly's gayest room
Is but an upper story to some tomb,
Methinks, we need not our short beings shun,
And, thought to fly, contend to be undone.
We need not buy our ruin with our crime,
And give eternity to murder time.

The love of gaming is the worst of ills:
With ceaseless storms the blacken'd soul it fills;
Inveighs at Heaven, neglects the ties of blood;
Destroys the power and will of doing good;
Kills health, pawns honour, plunges in disgrace,
And—what is still more dreadful—spoils your face.

See yonder set of thieves that live on spoil,
The scandal and the ruin of our isle!
And see, (strange sight!) amid that ruffian band,
A form divine high wave her snowy hand,
That rattles loud a small enchanted box,
Which, loud as thunder, on the board she knocks:
And as fierce storms, which earth's foundation shook,
From Æolus's cave impetuous broke,
From this small cavern a mix'd tempest flies,—
Fear, rage, convulsion, tears, oaths, blasphemies!
For men, I mean: the fair discharges none;
She (guiltless creature!) swears to Heaven alone.

See her eyes start, cheeks glow, and muscles swell,
Like the mad maid in the Cumæan cell.

402

Thus that divine one her soft nights employs!
Thus tunes her soul to tender nuptial joys!
And when the cruel morning calls to bed,
And on her pillow lays her aching head,
With the dear images her dreams are crown'd;
The die spins lovely, or the cards go round;
Imaginary ruin charms her still:
Her happy lord is cuckol'd by Spadille;
And if she's brought to bed, 'tis ten to one,
He marks the forehead of her darling son.

O scene of horror and of wild despair!
Why is the rich Atrides' splendid heir
Constrain'd to quit his ancient lordly seat,
And hide his glories in a mean retreat?
Why that drawn sword? and whence that dismal cry?
Why pale distraction through the family?
See my lord threaten, and my lady weep,
And trembling servants from the tempest creep.
Why that gay son to distant regions sent?
What fiends that daughter's destined match prevent?
Why the whole house in sudden ruin laid?
O, nothing but, last night—my lady play'd.

But wanders not my Satire from her theme?
Is this, too, owing to the Love of Fame?
Though now your hearts on lucre are bestow'd,
'Twas first a vain devotion to the mode:
Nor cease we here, since 'tis a vice so strong,
The torrent sweeps all womankind along;
This may be said, in honour of our times,
That none now stand distinguish'd by their crimes.

If sin you must, take Nature for your guide:
Love has some soft excuse to soothe your pride.
Ye fair apostates from love's ancient power!
Can nothing ravish but a golden shower?
Can cards alone your glowing fancy seize?
Must Cupid learn to punt, ere he can please?
When you're enamour'd of a lift or cast,
What can the preacher more, to make us chaste?
Why must strong youths unmarried pine away?
They find no woman disengaged—from play.
Why pine the married?—O severer fate!
They find from play no disengaged—estate.
Flavia, at lovers false untouch'd and hard,
Turns pale and trembles at a cruel card.

403

Nor Arria's Bible can secure her age;
Her threescore years are shuffling with her page.
While Death stands by but till the game is done,
To sweep that stake in justice long his own;
Like old cards tinged with sulphur, she takes fire;
Or, like snuffs sunk in sockets, blazes higher.
Ye gods! with new delights inspire the fair;
Or give us sons, and save us from despair.

Sons, brothers, fathers, husbands, tradesmen, close
In my complaint, and brand your sins in prose;
Yet I believe, as firmly as my Creed,
In spite of all our wisdom, you'll proceed;
Our pride so great, our passion is so strong,
Advice to right confirms us in the wrong.
I hear you cry, “This fellow's very odd.”
When you chastise, who would not kiss the rod?
But I've a charm your anger shall control,
And turn your eyes with coldness on the vole.

The charm begins! To yonder flood of light,
That bursts o'er gloomy Britain, turn your sight.
What guardian power o'erwhelms your souls with awe?
Her deeds are precepts, her example law.
'Midst empire's charms, how Carolina's heart
Glows with the love of virtue and of art!
Her favour is diffused to that degree,—
Excess of goodness!—it has dawn'd on me.
When in my page, to balance numerous faults,
Or godlike deeds were shown, or generous thoughts,
She smiled, industrious to be pleased, nor knew
From whom my pen the borrow'd lustre drew.

Thus the majestic mother of mankind,
To her own charms most amiably blind,
On the green margin innocently stood,
And gazed indulgent on the crystal flood;
Survey'd the stranger in the painted wave,
And, smiling, praised the beauties which she gave.

Shakspeare.

—Solem quis dicere falsum
Audeat?
—Virgilii Georg. lib. i. 463.

Shakspeare.

Milton.

404

SATIRE VII. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.

Carmina tum melius, cùm venerit ipse, canemus.
—Virgilii Ecl. ix. 67.

On this last labour, this my closing strain,
Smile, Walpole, or the Nine inspire in vain.
To thee 'tis due: that verse how justly thine,
Where Brunswick's glory crowns the whole design!
That glory which thy counsels make so bright;
That glory which on thee reflects a light.
Illustrious commerce, and but rarely known,—
To give, and take, a lustre from the throne!

Nor think that thou art foreign to my theme;
The fountain is not foreign to the stream.
How all mankind will be surprised to see
This flood of British folly charged on thee!
Say, Britain! whence this caprice of thy sons,
Which through their various ranks with fury runs?
The cause is plain, a cause which we must bless;
For Caprice is the daughter of Success,
(A bad effect, but from a pleasing cause!)
And gives our rulers undesign'd applause;
Tells how their conduct bids our wealth increase,
And lulls us in the downy lap of peace.

While I survey the blessings of our isle,
Her arts triumphant in the royal smile,
Her public wounds bound up, her credit high,
Her commerce spreading sails in every sky,
The pleasing scene recalls my theme again,
And shows the madness of ambitious men,
Who, fond of bloodshed, draw the murdering sword,
And burn to give mankind a single lord.

The follies past are of a private kind;
Their sphere is small; their mischief is confined:
But daring men there are (Awake, my Muse,
And raise thy verse!) who bolder frenzy choose
Who, stung by glory, rave, and bound away,
The world their field, and human-kind their prey.

The Grecian chief, the' enthusiast of his pride,
With Rage and Terror stalking by his side,

405

Raves round the globe; he soars into a god!
Stand fast, Olympus! and sustain his nod.
The pest divine in horrid grandeur reigns,
And thrives on mankind's miseries and pains.
What slaughter'd hosts, what cities in a blaze!
What wasted countries, and what crimson seas!
With orphans' tears his impious bowl o'erflows,
And cries of kingdoms lull him to repose.

And cannot thrice ten hundred years unpraise
The boisterous boy, and blast his guilty bays?
Why want we, then, encomiums on the storm,
Or famine, or volcano? They perform
Their mighty deeds; they, hero-like, can slay,
And spread their ample deserts in a day.
O great alliance! O divine renown!
With Dearth and Pestilence to share the crown!
When men extol a wild destroyer's name,
Earth's Builder and Preserver they blaspheme.

One to destroy, is murder by the law;
And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe:
To murder thousands, takes a specious name,
“War's glorious art,” and gives immortal Fame.

When, after battle, I the field have seen
Spread o'er with ghastly shapes, which once were men;
A nation crush'd, a nation of the brave!
A realm of death, and on this side the grave!
“Are there,” said I, “who from this sad survey,
This human chaos, carry smiles away?”
How did my heart with indignation rise!
How honest nature swell'd into my eyes!
How was I shock'd to think the hero's trade
Of such materials fame and triumph made!

How guilty these! Yet not less guilty they
Who reach false glory by a smoother way;
Who wrap destruction up in gentle words,
And bows, and smiles, more fatal than their swords;
Who stifle nature, and subsist on art;
Who coin the face, and petrify the heart;
All real kindness for the show discard,
As marble polish'd, and as marble hard;
Who do for gold what Christians do through grace,—
“With open arms their enemies embrace,”
Who give a nod when broken hearts repine,—
“The thinnest food on which a wretch can dine;”

406

Or, if they serve you, serve you disinclined,
And, in their height of kindness, are unkind.
Such courtiers were, and such again may be,
Walpole, when men forget to copy thee.

Here cease, my Muse! the catalogue is writ;
Nor one more candidate for Fame admit,
Though disappointed thousands justly blame
Thy partial pen, and boast an equal claim.
Be this their comfort,—fools, omitted here,
May furnish laughter for another year.
Then let Crispino, who was ne'er refused
The justice yet of being well abused,
With patience wait, and be content to reign
The pink of puppies in some future strain:

Some future strain, in which the Muse shall tell
How science dwindles, and how volumes swell:

How commentators each dark passage shun,
And hold their farthing-candle to the sun:

How tortured texts to speak our sense are made,
And every vice is to the scripture laid:

How misers squeeze a young voluptuous peer;
His sins to Lucifer not half so dear:

How Verres is less qualified to steal
With sword and pistol than with wax and seal:

How lawyers' fees to such excess are run,
That clients are redress'd till they're undone:

How one man's anguish is another's sport;
And e'en denials cost us dear at court:

How man eternally false judgments makes,
And all his joys and sorrows are mistakes.

This swarm of themes that settles on my pen,
Which I, like summer flies, shake off again,
Let others sing; to whom my weak essay
But sounds a prelude, and points out their prey:
That duty done, I hasten to complete
My own design; for Tonson's at the gate.

The Love of Fame, in its effect survey'd,
The Muse has sung: be now the cause display'd.
Since so diffusive and so wide its sway.
What is this power, whom all mankind obey?

Shot from above, by Heaven's indulgence, came
This generous ardour, this unconquer'd flame,
To warm, to raise, to deify mankind,
Still burning brightest in the noblest mind.

407

By large-soul'd men, for thirst of Fame renown'd,
Wise laws were framed, and sacred arts were found;
Desire of praise first broke the patriot's rest,
And made a bulwark of the warrior's breast;
It bids Argyll in fields and senates shine:
What more can prove its origin divine?

But, O! this passion planted in the soul,
On eagle's wings to mount her to the pole,
The flaming minister of Virtue meant,
Set up false gods, and wrong'd her high descent.

Ambition, hence, exerts a doubtful force,
Of blots and beauties an alternate source
Hence Gildon rails, that raven of the pit,
Who thrives upon the carcasses of wit;
And in art-loving Scarborough is seen
How kind a patron Pollio might have been.
Pursuit of Fame with pedants fills our schools,
And into coxcombs burnishes our fools:
Pursuit of Fame makes solid learning bright,
And Newton lifts above a mortal height;
That key of nature, by whose wit she clears
Her long, long secrets of five thousand years.

Would you, then, fully comprehend the whole,
Why, and in what degrees, Pride sways the soul?
(For, though in all, not equally she reigns:)
Awake to knowledge, and attend my strains.

Ye doctors! hear the doctrine I disclose,
As true as if 'twere writ in dullest prose;
As if a letter'd dunce had said, “'Tis right,”
And Imprimatur usher'd it to light.

Ambition, in the truly noble mind,
With sister Virtue is for ever join'd;
As in famed Lucrece, who, with equal dread,
From guilt and shame, by her last conduct, fled:
Her Virtue long rebell'd in firm disdain,
And the sword pointed at her heart in vain;
But, when the slave was threaten'd to be laid
Dead by her side, her Love of Fame obey'd.

In meaner minds Ambition works alone;
But with such art puts Virtue's aspect on,
That not more like, in feature and in mien,
The god and mortal in the comic scene.

408

False Julius, ambush'd in this fair disguise,
Soon made the Roman liberties his prize.

No mask in basest minds Ambition wears,
But in full light pricks up her ass's ears:
All I have sung are instances of this,
And prove my theme unfolded not amiss.

Ye vain! desist from your erroneous strife;
Be wise, and quit the false sublime of life.
The true Ambition there alone resides,
Where Justice vindicates, and Wisdom guides;
Where inward dignity joins outward state:
Our purpose good, as our achievement great;
Where public blessings public praise attend;
Where glory is our motive, not our end.
Wouldst thou be famed? Have those high deeds in view
Brave men would act, though scandal should ensue.

Behold a prince whom no swoln thoughts inflame,
No pride of thrones, no fever after Fame!
But when the welfare of mankind inspires,
And death in view to dear-bought glory fires,
Proud conquests then, then regal pomps, delight;
Then crowns, then triumphs, sparkle in his sight;
Tumult and noise are dear, which with them bring
His people's blessings to their ardent king.
But, when those great heroic motives cease,
His swelling soul subsides to native peace:
From tedious Grandeur's faded charms withdraws,
A sudden foe to splendour and applause;
Greatly deferring his arrears of Fame,
Till men and angels jointly shout his name.
O pride celestial, which can pride disdain!
O bless'd ambition, which can ne'er be vain!

From one famed Alpine hill, which props the sky,
In whose deep womb unfathom'd waters lie,
Here burst the Rhone and sounding Po; there shine,
In infant rills, the Danube and the Rhine;
From the rich store one fruitful urn supplies,
Whole kingdoms smile, a thousand harvests rise.

In Brunswick such a source the Muse adores,
Which public blessings through half Europe pours.
When his heart burns with such a godlike aim,
Angels and George are rivals for the Fame;
George, who in foes can soft affections raise,
And charm envenom'd Satire into praise.

409

Nor human Rage alone his power perceives,
But the mad Winds, and the tumultuous Waves.
E'en Storms (Death's fiercest ministers!) forbear,
And, in their own wild empire, learn to spare.
Thus Nature's self, supporting man's decree,
Styles Britain's sovereign “sovereign of the sea.”

While Sea and Air, great Brunswick! shook our state,
And sported with a king's and kingdom's fate,
Deprived of what she loved, and press'd by fear
Of ever losing what she held most dear,
How did Britannia, like Achilles, weep,
And tell her sorrows to the kindred deep;
Hang o'er the floods, and, in devotion warm,
Strive for thee with the surge, and fight the storm!

What felt thy Walpole, pilot of the realm?
Our Palinurus slept not at the helm;
His eye ne'er closed, long since inured to wake,
And out-watch every star, for Brunswick's sake.
By thwarting passions toss'd, by cares oppress'd,
He found the tempest pictured in his breast.
But now, what joys that gloom of heart dispel,
No powers of language—but his own—can tell;
His own, which Nature and the Graces form,
At will, to raise or hush the civil storm.

Amphitryon.

The king in danger by sea.

Homeri Iliad. lib. i. 349.

lib. v. 854.

410

ODES OCCASIONED BY HIS MAJESTY'S ROYAL ENCOURAGEMENT OF THE SEA-SERVICE.

TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED AN ODE TO THE KING, AND A DISCOURSE ON LYRIC POETRY.

MDCCXXVIII.

I.—ODE TO THE KING.

1

Old Ocean's praise Demands my lays:
A truly British theme I sing;
A theme so great I dare complete,
And join with Ocean “Ocean's king.”

2

To gods and kings The poet sings:
To kings and gods the Muse is dear;
The Muse inspires With all her fires:
Begin, my soul, thy bold career.

411

3

From awful state, From high debate,
From morning-splendours of a crown,
From homage paid, From empires weigh'd,
From plans of blessings and renown,

4

Great monarch, bow Thy beaming brow:
To thee I strike the sounding lyre,
With proud design In verse to shine,
To rival Greek and Roman fire.

5

The Roman ode Majestic flow'd,
Its stream divinely clear and strong:
In sense and sound, Thebes roll'd profound;
The torrent roar'd and foam'd along.

6

Let Thebes nor Rome, So famed, presume
To triumph o'er a northern isle:
Late time shall know The North can glow,
If dread Augustus deign to smile.

7

The work is done! The distant sun
His smile supplies! exalts my voice!
Through earth's wide bound Shall George resound,
My theme, by duty and by choice.

8

The naval crown Is all his own.
Our fleet, if War or Commerce call,
His will performs Through waves and storms,
And rides in triumph round the ball.

9

Since, then, the main Sublimes my strain,
To whom should I address my song?
To whom but thee? The boundless sea
And grateful Muse to George belong.

10

Hail, mighty theme, Rich mine of fame!
If gods invoked extend their aid;
Hail, subject new! As Britain's due,
Reserved by the Pierian maid.

11

Durst Homer's Muse, Or Pindar's, choose
To pour the billows on his string?
No; both defraud The tuneful god;
Scarce more sublime when Jove they sing.

12

No former race, With strong embrace,
This theme to ravish durst aspire;
With virgin charms My soul it warms,
And melts melodious on my lyre.

412

13

Now low, now high, My fingers fly,
Now pause, and now fresh music spring;
Now dance, now creep, Now dive, now sweep,
And fetch the sound from every string.

14

Now numbers rise, Like virgin's sighs;
The soft Favonians melt away,
As from the North Now rushes forth
A blast, that thunders in my lay.

15

My lays I file With cautious toil:
Ye Graces, turn the glowing lines;
On anvils neat Your strokes repeat;
At every stroke the work refines!

16

How Music charms! How Metre warms!
Parent of actions good and brave!
How Vice it tames, And Worth inflames,
And holds proud empire o'er the grave!

17

Jove mark'd for man A scanty span,
But lent him wings to fly his doom:
Wit scorns the grave; To Wit he gave
The life of gods, immortal bloom!

18

Since years will fly, And pleasures die,
Day after day, as years advance;
Since, while life lasts, Joy suffers blasts
From frowning Fate, and fickle Chance;

19

Nor life is long, But soon we throng,
Like autumn leaves, Death's pallid shore;
We make, at least, Of bad the best,
If in life's phantom, Fame, we soar.

20

Our strains divide The laurel's pride;
With those we lift to life, to live;
By fame enroll'd With heroes bold,
And share the blessings which we give.

21

What hero's praise Can fire my lays,
Like his with whom my lay begun?
“Justice sincere, And courage clear,
Rise the two columns of his throne.

22

“How form'd for sway! Who look, obey;
They read the monarch in his port:
Their love and awe Supply the law;
And his own lustre makes the court;

413

23

“But shines supreme, Where heroes flame;
In war's high-hearted pomp he prides!
By godlike arts Enthroned in hearts,
Our bosom-lord o'er wills presides.”

24

Our factions end, The nations bend!
For when Britannia's sons, combined
In fair array, All march one way,
They march the terror of mankind.

25

If equal all Who tread the ball,
Our bounded prospect here would end;
But heroes prove As steps to Jove,
By which our thoughts, with ease, ascend.

26

On yonder height What golden light
Triumphant shines, and shines alone?
Unrivall'd blaze! The nations gaze!
'Tis not the sun; 'tis Britain's throne.

27

Our monarch there, Rear'd high in air,
Should tempests rise, disdains to bend;
Like British oak, Derides the stroke;
His blooming honours far extend.

28

Beneath them lies, With lifted eyes,
Fair Albion, like an amorous maid;
While interest wings Bold foreign kings
To fly, like eagles, to his shade.

29

At his proud foot The sea, pour'd out,
Immortal nourishment supplies;
Thence wealth and state, And power and fate,
Which Europe reads in George's eyes.

30

From what we view, We take the clue
Which leads from great to greater things:
Men doubt no more, But gods adore,
When such resemblance shines in kings.

[_]

The prose discourse on lyric poetry (Section II) has been omitted.

420

III.—OCEAN:

AN ODE. CONCLUDING WITH A WISH.

“Let the sea make a noise: let the floods clap their hands.”
Psalm xcviii. 7, 8.

1

Sweet rural scene Of flocks and green!
At careless ease my limbs are spread;
All nature still, But yonder rill;
And listening pines nod o'er my head:

2

In prospect wide, The boundless tide!
Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar;
Without a breeze, The curling seas
Dance on, in measure to the shore.

3

Who sings the source Of wealth and force?
Vast field of commerce and big war,
Where wonders dwell, Where terrors swell,
And Neptune thunders from his car?

4

Where, where are they Whom Pæan's ray
Has touch'd, and bid divinely rave?—
What! none aspire? I snatch the lyre,
And plunge into the foaming wave.

5

The wave resounds, The rock rebounds,
The Nereids to my song reply!
I lead the choir, And they conspire,
With voice and shell, to lift it high.

6

They spread in air Their bosoms fair;
Their verdant tresses pour behind;
The billows beat With nimble feet;
With notes triumphant swell the wind.

7

Who love the shore, Let those adore
The god Apollo, and his Nine,
Parnassus' hill, And Orpheus' skill;
But let Arion's harp be mine.

8

The main, the main Is Britain's reign;
Her strength, her glory, is her fleet:
“The main, the main!” Be Britain's strain;
As Tritons strong, as Syrens sweet.

421

9

Through nature wide Is nought descried
So rich in pleasure or surprise.
When all serene, How sweet the scene!
How dreadful, when the billows rise,

10

And storms deface The fluid glass
In which erewhile Britannia fair
Look'd down with pride, Like Ocean's bride,
Adjusting her majestic air!

11

When tempests cease, And, hush'd in peace,
The flatten'd surges, smoothly spread,
Deep silence keep, And seem to sleep
Recumbent on their oozy bed;

12

With what a trance The level glance,
Unbroken, shoots along the seas!
Which tempt from shore The painted oar;
And every canvass courts the breeze.

13

When rushes forth The frowning North
On blackening billows, with what dread
My shuddering soul Beholds them roll,
And hears their roarings o'er my head!

14

With terror mark Yon flying bark!
Now centre-deep descend the brave;
Now, toss'd on high, It takes the sky,
A feather on the towering wave;

15

Now spins around In whirls profound;
Now whelm'd, now pendent near the clouds;
Now, stunn'd, it reels 'Midst thunder's peals;
And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds.

16

All ether burns: Chaos returns,
And blends, once more, the seas and skies:
No space between Thy bosom green,
O Deep! and the blue concave, lies.

17

The northern blast, The shatter'd mast,
The syrt, the whirlpool, and the rock,
The breaking spout, The stars gone out,
The boiling strait, the monsters' shock,

18

Let others fear: To Britain dear
Whate'er promotes her daring claim;
Those terrors charm Which keep her warm
In chase of honest gain or fame.

422

19

The stars are bright To cheer the night,
And shed through shadows temper'd fire;
And Phœbus flames With burnish'd beams,
Which some adore, and all admire.

20

Are, then, the seas Outshone by these?
Bright Thetis! thou art not outshone;
With kinder beams, And softer gleams,
Thy bosom wears them as thy own.

21

There, set in green, Gold-stars are seen,
A mantle rich, thy charms to wrap;
And when the sun His race has run,
He falls enamour'd in thy lap.

22

Those clouds, whose dyes Adorn the skies,
That silver snow, that pearly rain,
Has Phœbus stole To grace the Pole,
The plunder of the' invaded main!

23

The gaudy bow, Whose colours glow,
Whose arch with so much skill is bent,—
To Phœbus' ray, Which paints so gay,
By thee the watery woof was lent.

24

In chambers deep, Where waters sleep,
What unknown treasures pave the floor!
The pearl, in rows, Pale lustre throws;
The wealth immense which storms devour.

25

From Indian mines, With proud designs,
The merchant, swoln, digs golden ore:
The tempests rise, And seize the prize,
And toss him breathless on the shore.

26

His son complains In pious strains;
“Ah cruel thirst of gold!” he cries;
Then ploughs the main In zeal for gain,
The tears yet swelling in his eyes.

27

Thou watery vast! What mounds are cast
To bar thy dreadful flowings o'er?
Thy proudest foam Must know its home;
But rage of gold disdains a shore.

28

Gold Pleasure buys; But Pleasure dies,
Too soon the gross fruition cloys;
Though raptures court, The sense is short:
But Virtue kindles living joys,—

423

29

Joys felt alone, Joys ask'd of none,
Which Time's and Fortune's arrows miss;
Joys that subsist, Though Fates resist;
An unprecarious, endless bliss!

30

The soul refined Is most inclined
To every moral excellence:
All vice is dull; A knave's a fool;
And Virtue is the child of Sense.

31

The virtuous mind Nor wave nor wind,
Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown,
The shaken ball, Nor planet's fall,
From its firm basis can dethrone.

32

This Britain knows, And therefore glows
With generous passions, and expends
Her wealth and zeal On public weal,
And brightens both by godlike ends.

33

What end so great As that which late
Awoke the Genius of the main?
Which towering rose With George to close,
And rival great Eliza's reign.

34

A voice has flown From Britain's throne
To re-inflame a grand design:
That voice shall rear Yon fabric fair,
As Nature's rose at the Divine.

35

When Nature sprung, Bless'd angels sung
And shouted o'er the rising ball:
For strains as high As man's can fly,
These sea-devoted honours call.

36

From boisterous seas, The lap of ease
Receives our wounded and our old;
High domes ascend, Stretch'd arches bend,
Proud columns swell, wide gates unfold.

37

So sleeps the grain, In fostering rain
And vital beams, till Jove descend;
Then bursts the root, The verdures shoot,
And earth enrich, adorn, defend.

424

38

Here, soft-reclined, From wave, from wind,
And Fortune's tempest safe, ashore,
To cheat their care, Of former war
They talk the pleasing shadows o'er.

39

In lengthen'd tales Our fleet prevails,—
In tales, the lenitives of age;
And, o'er the bowl, They fire the soul
Of listening youth to martial rage.

40

The story done, Their setting sun
Serenely smiling down the west,
In soft decay They drop away;
And honour leads them to their rest.

41

Unhappy they, And falsely gay,
Who bask for ever in success!
A constant feast Quite palls the taste,
And long enjoyment is distress.

42

What charms us most, Our joy, our boast,
Familiar loses all its gloss;
And gold refined The sated mind,
Fastidious, turns to perfect dross.

43

When, after toil, His native soil
The panting mariner regains,
What transport flows From bare repose!
We reap our pleasure from our pains.

44

Ye warlike slain, Beneath the main,
Wrapp'd in a watery winding sheet;
Who bought with blood Your country's good!
Your country's full-blown glory greet.

45

What powerful charm Can Death disarm,
Your long, your iron slumbers break?
By Jove, by Fame, By George's name,
Awake, awake, awake, awake!

46

Our joy so proud, Our shout so loud.
Without a charm the dead might hear:
And see, they rouse! Their awful brows,
Deep-scarr'd, from oozy pillows rear!

425

47

With spiral shell, Full-blasted, tell,
That all your watery realms should ring;
Your pearl alcoves, Your coral groves,
Should echo theirs and Britain's king.

48

As long as stars Guide mariners
As Carolina's virtues please,
Or suns invite The ravish'd sight,
The British flag shall sweep the seas.

49

Peculiar both,—Our soil's strong growth,
And our bold natives' hardy mind!
Sure Heaven bespoke Our hearts and oak,
To give a master to mankind.

50

That noblest birth Of teeming earth,
Of forests fair that daughter proud,
To foreign coasts Our grandeur boasts,
And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud;

51

Now, big with war, Sends fate from far,
If rebel realms their fate demand;
Now sumptuous spoils Of foreign soils
Pours in the bosom of our land.

52

Hence Britain lays In scales and weighs
The fate of kingdoms and of kings;
And as she frowns Or smiles, on crowns
A night or day of glory springs.

53

Thus Ocean swells The streams and rills,
And to their borders lifts them high;
Or else withdraws The mighty cause,
And leaves their famish'd channels dry.

54

How mix'd, how frail, How sure to fail,
Is every pleasure of mankind!
A damp destroys My blooming joys,
While Britain's glory fires my mind.

55

For who can gaze On restless seas,
Unstruck with life's more restless state,
Where all are toss'd, And most are lost,
By tides of passion, blasts of fate?

56

The world's the main: How vex'd! how vain!
Ambition swells, and anger foams.
May good men find, Beneath the wind,
A noiseless shore, unruffled homes!

426

57

The public scene Of harden'd men
Teach me, O teach me to despise!
The world few know But to their woe:
Our crimes with our experience rise.

58

All tender sense Is banish'd thence,
All maiden Nature's first alarms;
What shock'd before Disgusts no more,
And what disgusted has its charms.

59

In landscapes green True Bliss is seen;
With Innocence, in shades she sports:
In wealthy towns Proud Labour frowns,
And painted Sorrow smiles in courts.

60

These scenes untried Seduced my pride,
To Fortune's arrows bared my breast,
Till Wisdom came, A hoary dame!
And told me Pleasure was in rest.

THE WISH.

61

O may I steal Along the vale
Of humble life, secure from foes!
My friend sincere, My judgment clear,
And gentle business my repose!

62

My mind be strong To combat wrong!
Grateful, O king, for favours shown!
Soft to complain For others' pain,
And bold to triumph o'er my own!

63

When Fortune's kind, Acute to find,
And warm to relish, every boon,
And wise to still Fantastic ill,
Whose frightful spectres stalk at noon.

64

No fruitless toils, No brainless broils,
Each moment levell'd at the mark!
Our day so short Invites no sport;
Be sad and solemn when 'tis dark.

65

Yet, Prudence, still Rein thou my will!
What's most important make most dear!
For 'tis in this Resides true bliss;
True bliss, a deity severe!

427

66

When temper leans To gayer scenes,
And serious life void moments spares,
The sylvan chase My sinews brace,
Or song unbend my mind from cares!

67

Nor shun, my soul, The genial bowl,
Where mirth, good-nature, spirit flow;
Ingredients these Above to please
The laughing gods, the wise below.

68

Though rich the vine, More wit than wine,
More sense than wit, good-will than art,
May I provide! Fair truth, my pride!
My joy, the converse of the heart!

69

The gloomy brow, The broken vow,
To distant climes, ye gods, remove!
The nobly-soul'd Their commerce hold
With words of truth, and looks of love.

70

O glorious aim! O wealth supreme!
Divine benevolence of soul!
That greatly glows, And freely flows,
And in one blessing grasps the whole!

71

Prophetic schemes, And golden dreams,
May I unsanguine cast away!
Have what I have, And live, not leave,
Enamour'd of the present day!

72

My hours my own, My faults unknown,
My chief revenue in content;
Then leave one beam Of honest fame,
And scorn the labour'd monument!

73

Unhurt my urn Till that great turn
When mighty Nature's self shall die;
Time cease to glide, With human pride,
Sunk in the ocean of eternity.

A new fund for Greenwich Hospital, recommended from the throne.

Written soon after King George I.'s accession.

END OF VOL. I.

University of Virginia Library

A PARAPHRASE ON PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB.

A POEM ON THE LAST DAY.

IN THREE BOOKS.

BOOK I.

BOOK II.

BOOK III.

VERSES TO THE AUTHOR.

TO A LADY, WITH “THE LAST DAY.”

TO THE AUTHOR, ON HIS “LAST DAY” AND “UNIVERSAL PASSION.”

SOME THOUGHTS ON READING MR. YOUNG'S POEM ON THE LAST DAY;

IN A LETTER TO MRS. ROWE.

AN EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.

TO MR. ADDISON, ON THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.

PREFIXED TO IT IN MDCCXIII.

ON MICHAEL ANGELO'S FAMOUS PIECE OF THE CRUCIFIXION;

WHO IS SAID TO HAVE STABBED A PERSON, THAT HE MIGHT DRAW IT MORE NATURALLY.

THE FORCE OF RELIGION;

OR, VANQUISHED LOVE.

A POEM. IN TWO BOOKS.

BOOK I.

BOOK II.

ON THE LATE QUEEN'S DEATH, AND HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE.

INSCRIBED TO JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ., SECRETARY TO THEIR EXCELLENCES THE LORDS JUSTICES.

A LETTER TO MR. TICKELL,

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ.,

THE INSTALMENT.

LOVE OF FAME, THE UNIVERSAL PASSION.

IN SEVEN CHARACTERISTICAL SATIRES.

SATIRE I. TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF DORSET.

SATIRE II.

SATIRE III. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MR. DODINGTON.

SATIRE IV. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR SPENCER COMPTON.

SATIRE V. ON WOMEN.

SATIRE VI. ON WOMEN.

SATIRE VII. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.

ODES OCCASIONED BY HIS MAJESTY'S ROYAL ENCOURAGEMENT OF THE SEA-SERVICE.

TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED AN ODE TO THE KING, AND A DISCOURSE ON LYRIC POETRY.

I.—ODE TO THE KING.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

III.—OCEAN:

AN ODE. CONCLUDING WITH A WISH.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9