Original poems on several subjects In two volumes. By William Stevenson |
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INTRODUCTION TO THE SATIRES.
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 | Original poems on several subjects |  |
INTRODUCTION TO THE SATIRES.
Addressed to Lord ---
Look with discerning eye around,
What else but vanity is found,
From the imperial palace, down
To the mean cottage of the clown?
Mankind pursue, with endless strife,
Lur'd by false estimates of life,
Those objects which, when they o'ertake,
Them more supremely wretched make.
And why? let all for once attend,
Without the means, we seek the end.
Seek Happiness, but her in vain,
Unknown to Virtue, would attain.
She's paradise, divinely stor'd;
Virtue's, to guard, the flaming sword;
A flaming sword to all who would,
Without her suff'rance, bold intrude.
But who her sacred steps pursue,
Them she conducts, and welcomes too.
What else but vanity is found,
From the imperial palace, down
To the mean cottage of the clown?
Mankind pursue, with endless strife,
Lur'd by false estimates of life,
Those objects which, when they o'ertake,
Them more supremely wretched make.
And why? let all for once attend,
Without the means, we seek the end.
Seek Happiness, but her in vain,
Unknown to Virtue, would attain.
She's paradise, divinely stor'd;
Virtue's, to guard, the flaming sword;
A flaming sword to all who would,
Without her suff'rance, bold intrude.
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Them she conducts, and welcomes too.
But this fine scene for moral wit
Will bards of graver studies fit.
Subjects less solemn far we chuse,
That suit the laughter-loving Muse,
Suit aptly the satiric pen,
The whims and caprices of men.
Will bards of graver studies fit.
Subjects less solemn far we chuse,
That suit the laughter-loving Muse,
Suit aptly the satiric pen,
The whims and caprices of men.
These gain'd immortal praise to Young,
In his keen pointed numbers sung.
Who would the rash attempt avow,
To pluck the laurels from his brow,
Those subjects, impotent, explore,
Which he exhausted long before?
No; let the passion, love of fame,
Be universal as his name;
While we, self-borne the daring Muse,
No borrow'd wings would meanly use.
In his keen pointed numbers sung.
Who would the rash attempt avow,
To pluck the laurels from his brow,
Those subjects, impotent, explore,
Which he exhausted long before?
No; let the passion, love of fame,
Be universal as his name;
While we, self-borne the daring Muse,
No borrow'd wings would meanly use.
What follies yet remain unsung,
From vanity and dulness sprung,
Though oft Pope's justly-kindled rage
Made such the laughter of the age?
A few now would the muse select,
In all their native trappings deckt,
As through life's wayward paths men plod,
Or skip, extravagantly odd.
No characters unknown we draw,
Which mankind living never saw.
Not Nature just in ev'ry part,
But transcripts of the writer's heart.
Vagaries of a troubled brain,
Ineffably absurd and vain.
Wild thoughts, made wilder by his pen,
Stuff'd into characters of men.
As Rome's great satirist describes
A monster form'd from various tribes,
With which his reader's eye he feasts,
Women and fishes, fowls and beasts.
Thus C---'s frantic pencil draws,
Exalts with blame, damns with applause.
Nor strange, himself so little man,
So little human in his plan.
In branding him we break no laws,
But thus assert the public cause.
The public he abuses, who
First fed him, and preserves him so.
With thankless and ungrateful pen,
Styles his supporters worst of men.
As the fell snake that bosom stings
Which it to life and motion brings .
Censure on him we justly call
A panegyric pass'd on all.
Satire should ever build on truth,
Absurd, else, senseless, and uncouth.
Without truth we to gain eclat,
Ourselves, but not mankind, may draw.
Without truth satirists are sure
Deeply to wound, but never cure.
From vanity and dulness sprung,
Though oft Pope's justly-kindled rage
Made such the laughter of the age?
A few now would the muse select,
In all their native trappings deckt,
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Or skip, extravagantly odd.
No characters unknown we draw,
Which mankind living never saw.
Not Nature just in ev'ry part,
But transcripts of the writer's heart.
Vagaries of a troubled brain,
Ineffably absurd and vain.
Wild thoughts, made wilder by his pen,
Stuff'd into characters of men.
As Rome's great satirist describes
A monster form'd from various tribes,
With which his reader's eye he feasts,
Women and fishes, fowls and beasts.
Thus C---'s frantic pencil draws,
Exalts with blame, damns with applause.
Nor strange, himself so little man,
So little human in his plan.
In branding him we break no laws,
But thus assert the public cause.
The public he abuses, who
First fed him, and preserves him so.
With thankless and ungrateful pen,
Styles his supporters worst of men.
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Which it to life and motion brings .
Censure on him we justly call
A panegyric pass'd on all.
Satire should ever build on truth,
Absurd, else, senseless, and uncouth.
Without truth we to gain eclat,
Ourselves, but not mankind, may draw.
Without truth satirists are sure
Deeply to wound, but never cure.
Far other features we would sketch,
Than men from mere idea fetch.
On those alone our numbers flow,
Which from examples well we know,
Living examples, ev'ry where
That boldly in our faces stare.
Than men from mere idea fetch.
On those alone our numbers flow,
Which from examples well we know,
Living examples, ev'ry where
That boldly in our faces stare.
Authors, among this motly race,
Possess no undistinguish'd place;
Authors, howe'er bred up in schools,
Still of mankind the greatest fools.
Blockheads will ever swarm below,
But why should print proclaim them so?
Reptiles beneath the ground should crawl,
Else trodden under foot by all.
Possess no undistinguish'd place;
Authors, howe'er bred up in schools,
Still of mankind the greatest fools.
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But why should print proclaim them so?
Reptiles beneath the ground should crawl,
Else trodden under foot by all.
But with disguise's artful veil,
That we may persons still conceal,
No one whole character we chuse,
Though form'd by Nature, not the Muse.
To pick out objects wrong or right,
To show our malice and our spite,
This not, on Satire's lib'ral plan,
Were, Flaccus-like, to laugh at man,
But, for the rag on dunghills roll'd,
Like dainty cinder-wives to scold.
We, in offending justly checkt,
From various characters select,
That, blended artfully, we may
Heighten'd the ridicule survey.
Men, things offensive to the eye
With much disgust, though single, spy;
But, if in heaps collected, who
Would not the strongest loathing show?
These, into parts resolv'd again,
To various owners appertain.
Thus artists show the curious work,
Where springs aud wheels complexly lurk,
Though, as one master's labour shown,
Each claims a workman of its own.
Mankind here, as if call'd by name,
May each his darling foible claim;
Just as the cap befits him, wear,
Nor owning, call the Muse severe.
That we may persons still conceal,
No one whole character we chuse,
Though form'd by Nature, not the Muse.
To pick out objects wrong or right,
To show our malice and our spite,
This not, on Satire's lib'ral plan,
Were, Flaccus-like, to laugh at man,
But, for the rag on dunghills roll'd,
Like dainty cinder-wives to scold.
We, in offending justly checkt,
From various characters select,
That, blended artfully, we may
Heighten'd the ridicule survey.
Men, things offensive to the eye
With much disgust, though single, spy;
But, if in heaps collected, who
Would not the strongest loathing show?
These, into parts resolv'd again,
To various owners appertain.
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Where springs aud wheels complexly lurk,
Though, as one master's labour shown,
Each claims a workman of its own.
Mankind here, as if call'd by name,
May each his darling foible claim;
Just as the cap befits him, wear,
Nor owning, call the Muse severe.
Nor we less cautious shall describe
That mongrel breed, the author-tribe;
Though small compassion often shown,
No individuals shall be known:
For such, though they impos'd our task,
Humanity implores the mask.
A task, that ever would begin,
Were we to take all rhymers in.
Rhymers, who, for a verse or two,
Think immortality their due.
Vain thought! that words dispos'd to chime,
Should therefore hit the true sublime.
A pigmy, perch'd upon Parnassus,
Still justly for a pigmy passes.
A dunce in numbers, never rose
Above a very dunce in prose.
That mongrel breed, the author-tribe;
Though small compassion often shown,
No individuals shall be known:
For such, though they impos'd our task,
Humanity implores the mask.
A task, that ever would begin,
Were we to take all rhymers in.
Rhymers, who, for a verse or two,
Think immortality their due.
Vain thought! that words dispos'd to chime,
Should therefore hit the true sublime.
A pigmy, perch'd upon Parnassus,
Still justly for a pigmy passes.
A dunce in numbers, never rose
Above a very dunce in prose.
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When will that blissful æra come,
When Dulness shall be ever dumb,
When desks shall authors' works confine,
Immortal there content to shine,
Not for a moment dragg'd to light,
Then plung'd in everlasting night?
Soon Reputation dies; yet man
Would shorten still its narrow span;
Before the spade performs its task,
Or worms their fated banquet ask,
To Fame's bar'd heart the quill apply,
And straight poetically die.
Foul suicide, without dismay
Calm perpetrated ev'ry day!
Gibbets may rot, and axes rust,
If each self-judg'd bravado must,
In bold defiance of all law,
Upon himself in secret draw.
When Dulness shall be ever dumb,
When desks shall authors' works confine,
Immortal there content to shine,
Not for a moment dragg'd to light,
Then plung'd in everlasting night?
Soon Reputation dies; yet man
Would shorten still its narrow span;
Before the spade performs its task,
Or worms their fated banquet ask,
To Fame's bar'd heart the quill apply,
And straight poetically die.
Foul suicide, without dismay
Calm perpetrated ev'ry day!
Gibbets may rot, and axes rust,
If each self-judg'd bravado must,
In bold defiance of all law,
Upon himself in secret draw.
But while, my Lord, the satire hits
Those little rhyme-engender'd wits,
Applied by Candour's voice to you,
It forms but your elogium due;
As objects, when the sun-beam's near,
Some dark, some luminous, appear;
Or as fam'd lanterns, aptly made,
Light here diffuse, and there a shade.
To dumb Oblivion's long long night
To consecrate such bards how right!
For thus, with glory and renown
Unfading we true genius crown.
Those little rhyme-engender'd wits,
Applied by Candour's voice to you,
It forms but your elogium due;
As objects, when the sun-beam's near,
Some dark, some luminous, appear;
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Light here diffuse, and there a shade.
To dumb Oblivion's long long night
To consecrate such bards how right!
For thus, with glory and renown
Unfading we true genius crown.
| Original poems on several subjects | |