 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
292
VERSES,
On Sight of an Half-Penny, found in Mr. Kenneth Campbell's Pocket, after his Death.
One Half-Penny was Campbell's latest Store!
A poor Estate!—but Homer had no more!
From Town to Town, the old, dark, Grecian strol'd,
And, Piecemeal, first, his Ballad Iliad sold.
Dire Fate of Genius! wond'rous strange—but true!
Rarely to meet, 'till after Death, its Due!
The most deserving, often, suffers most;
For Sterling Worth, on half Mankind, is lost.
Blockheads and Fools were favour'd and admir'd,
When Heav'n-born Bards, in Penury, expir'd.
O let it not, in foreign Lands, be said,
The British Poets scarce are blest with Bread.
From France, and Italy, with-hold the News,
Lest Strangers triumph o'er our Taste, and Muse.
Tell not, that Bacon miserably dy'd!
Spencer was starv'd! and Johnson's Art descry'd!
Neglected, and obscure, great Milton lay:
He writ to Moles, who cou'd not gaze his Day!
Butler, the Prince of Pleasantry and Wit,
Was damn'd by those, for whom he, zealous, writ:
In a mean Garret he resign'd his Breath,
And was ev'n grudg'd a Burying after Death!
The Church, he serv'd, to Merit, prov'd so blind!
But seldom Church, and Charity, are joyn'd!
Otway, in tragic Numbers, match'd by none,
Whose poor Monimia never wept alone,
For his own Wants, cou'd never move a Tear!
Like Adders deaf, all stop'd a gracious Ear.
At last, from all the World, he step'd aside,
And, quite discourag'd, in an Ale-House, dy'd.
Lee, fir'd with an Enthusiastic Rage,
Was judg'd a Madman, by a madder Age,
That made him beg, from Door to Door, his Bread,
And die, at last, upon the Streets, in Need.
Fam'd Wicherly, in Satyr's Province great,
Seven Years, in Prison, struggled with his Fate;
While worthless Scriblers flourish'd in the Town,
And, from his Ruins, scrap'd their vile Renown.
Dryden—who does not mighty Dryden know?
From whom, with Ease, harmonious Numbers flow,
Who both the Language, and the Muse, improv'd,
Whose Reason charm'd the Men! whose Lays the Virgins lov'd!
By his Cotemporaries was despis'd,
And, oft, to mobbish Rivals sacrific'd.
Never at Ease his Circumstances were:
His poor Estate cou'd scarce his Corps inter.
Yet, on his Funeral, who were not profuse?
His Dust they worship'd, when they starv'd his Muse!
Preposterous Piety! to give one Meat,
But not before he is too old to eat!
Tate, honest Tate! in Spite of Virtue, press'd,
Neglected, liv'd, and dy'd, at length, distress'd.
His being good exeem'd him not from Woe:
Men minded him no more, for being so!
He was found guilty of the common Vice
Of Poetry—Enough to damn him twice!
Phillips, whose Name, while Cyder's drunk, and while
One splendid Shilling's found in Britain's Isle,
Shall ever live, with an un-envy'd Praise,
Like his ill-fated Brothers, pin'd away his Days.
A poor Estate!—but Homer had no more!
293
And, Piecemeal, first, his Ballad Iliad sold.
Dire Fate of Genius! wond'rous strange—but true!
Rarely to meet, 'till after Death, its Due!
The most deserving, often, suffers most;
For Sterling Worth, on half Mankind, is lost.
Blockheads and Fools were favour'd and admir'd,
When Heav'n-born Bards, in Penury, expir'd.
O let it not, in foreign Lands, be said,
The British Poets scarce are blest with Bread.
From France, and Italy, with-hold the News,
Lest Strangers triumph o'er our Taste, and Muse.
Tell not, that Bacon miserably dy'd!
Spencer was starv'd! and Johnson's Art descry'd!
Neglected, and obscure, great Milton lay:
He writ to Moles, who cou'd not gaze his Day!
294
Was damn'd by those, for whom he, zealous, writ:
In a mean Garret he resign'd his Breath,
And was ev'n grudg'd a Burying after Death!
The Church, he serv'd, to Merit, prov'd so blind!
But seldom Church, and Charity, are joyn'd!
Otway, in tragic Numbers, match'd by none,
Whose poor Monimia never wept alone,
For his own Wants, cou'd never move a Tear!
Like Adders deaf, all stop'd a gracious Ear.
At last, from all the World, he step'd aside,
And, quite discourag'd, in an Ale-House, dy'd.
Lee, fir'd with an Enthusiastic Rage,
Was judg'd a Madman, by a madder Age,
That made him beg, from Door to Door, his Bread,
And die, at last, upon the Streets, in Need.
295
Seven Years, in Prison, struggled with his Fate;
While worthless Scriblers flourish'd in the Town,
And, from his Ruins, scrap'd their vile Renown.
Dryden—who does not mighty Dryden know?
From whom, with Ease, harmonious Numbers flow,
Who both the Language, and the Muse, improv'd,
Whose Reason charm'd the Men! whose Lays the Virgins lov'd!
By his Cotemporaries was despis'd,
And, oft, to mobbish Rivals sacrific'd.
Never at Ease his Circumstances were:
His poor Estate cou'd scarce his Corps inter.
Yet, on his Funeral, who were not profuse?
His Dust they worship'd, when they starv'd his Muse!
Preposterous Piety! to give one Meat,
But not before he is too old to eat!
296
Neglected, liv'd, and dy'd, at length, distress'd.
His being good exeem'd him not from Woe:
Men minded him no more, for being so!
He was found guilty of the common Vice
Of Poetry—Enough to damn him twice!
Phillips, whose Name, while Cyder's drunk, and while
One splendid Shilling's found in Britain's Isle,
Shall ever live, with an un-envy'd Praise,
Like his ill-fated Brothers, pin'd away his Days.
It is not strange to see a Poet sad:
Oppression makes the wisest Spirit mad!
To see a Blockhead, or a Fool, in Place,
While, he, in Spite of Merit, meets Disgrace;
What Man of Soul, and conscious of Desert,
Can keep, in Tune, the Passions of his Heart?
But what has been, will evermore be done—
Britons, like Jews, will worship Stock, or Stone,
Or Satan's self—but grudge a just Regard
To God Almighty, and his favourite Bard!
Be sure the Poet is the least admir'd,
Whom Heav'n, with an uncommon Flame, inspir'd.
Oppression makes the wisest Spirit mad!
To see a Blockhead, or a Fool, in Place,
While, he, in Spite of Merit, meets Disgrace;
What Man of Soul, and conscious of Desert,
Can keep, in Tune, the Passions of his Heart?
297
Britons, like Jews, will worship Stock, or Stone,
Or Satan's self—but grudge a just Regard
To God Almighty, and his favourite Bard!
Be sure the Poet is the least admir'd,
Whom Heav'n, with an uncommon Flame, inspir'd.
Campbell! let others, in the vulgar Cant,
Condemn your Conduct, and deride your Want—
I'll sing your Genius, spite of all Mankind;
Not wonder why you left no more behind,
But how, at Death, this Half-Penny remains,
To fraught your Shade to the Elysian Plains!
When Tomb-Stones, Monuments, and Pillars, waste,
Your poor, Poetic, Legacy shall laste:
The Muses' Sons, at Glasgow's learned Seat,
Will save the sacred Relict from consuming Fate.
Condemn your Conduct, and deride your Want—
I'll sing your Genius, spite of all Mankind;
Not wonder why you left no more behind,
But how, at Death, this Half-Penny remains,
To fraught your Shade to the Elysian Plains!
When Tomb-Stones, Monuments, and Pillars, waste,
Your poor, Poetic, Legacy shall laste:
The Muses' Sons, at Glasgow's learned Seat,
Will save the sacred Relict from consuming Fate.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |