University of Virginia Library

On my hard Fate as late I pondring lay,
Spent and bow'd down beneath the Toils of Day,
By weary Nature to repose constrain'd,
I slept at last, and thus in sleep complain'd.
Ah Wretch! to this unhappy Clime confin'd,
Lost to my Friends, and cut from Human kind;
A Clime where gentle Zephyrs never blow,
Where frozen Gods keep Court in Ice and Snow.
The rigid Winters here come early on,
With August brought, and scarce with April gone.
In other places Nature looks but bare,
Some marks of Spring continue all the Year;
But every Winter stript her naked here.
The Miry Glebe imprisons Man and Beast,
And there must come a Drowth to be releas'd.
No Converse does the tedious Hours beguile,
But Love and Friendship fly this barbarous Soil.
None here for ought but Mammon will repair,
And Life has no cessation from its Care.
Even Honesty it self is banish'd hence,
And Ignorance sets up for Innocence.
The Natives are such Brutes, so homely bred,
They're of a piece with that on which they tread;
Strangers to Virtue, to all Liberal Arts;
Their Oxen and their Swine have all their Hearts,
Creatures of equal Intellectual Parts.
Among each other endless Fewds they sow,
And Malice lays Manure to make 'em grow.
In Courts and Senates let them strive and jar,
Wrangle in Cities, clamour at the Bar.
But this is strange e'en in this abject Life,
Where Matter fails, to find an equal Strife.
No mutual Trust between 'em e'er presides;
And Knav'ry follows, when 'tis Interest guides.
Thus Slander, Strife, and Spight triumphant reign
Among these clumsy Blockheads of the Plain.

How vain are all the Tales the Antients told
Of a self-teeming Glebe, and of an Age of Gold;
Of flowry Shades where Peace supinely reigns?
Of faultless Nymphs, and of the faithful Swains?
'Tis all Idea—but by Fancy wrought,
The idle Rovings of a wandring Thought.
E'en Cowley, who a Rural Life had long
Ador'd, and made it Deathless in his Song;
When to the Fields he for that Blessing came,
Found all their boasted Innocence a Name;
And Chertsea stands (to contradict his Rhymes)
Blam'd in his Prose to all succeeding times.
What Path can here derided Virtue take?
What Musick can the sighing Muses make?
Without Converse they lose their Force and Fire,
And Reason back does to its Spring retire.
The long remove from Mirth, from Wit and Arts,
Sets us beneath our very natural Parts.
If we're not rising, we go down the Hill,
For Knowledg knows no mean of standing still.
The brightn'd Armour glitters to the Sun,
But only using keeps the Polish on.

Thus doom'd to Dulness, here I bury'd lye;
O low, obscure, inglorious Destiny!
My Youth has vainly, idly took its flight,
Unknown to Profit, Learning, and Delight.
Depriv'd of all that can improve or please,
I live in Desarts, yet depriv'd of Ease:
Whilst envious Fortune here my Head imploys
In barren Labour, and eternal Noise.
Depriv'd of London, then too little priz'd,
Before I knew the Blessing I despis'd.
For Towns, like Tallys, Man for Man does fit,
And Wit does keenest whet it self on Wit.
Oh Noble City! but too late I mourn
My Fortune, banish'd never to return.
I would not have it thought, my Wish intends
Great Matters—No, free from ambitious Ends:
Only a Human Fate my Hope invites,
And Innocence, in which my Soul delights.
None better cou'd than I contented live
With little, or from little more would give.
But here I live not, in this Brutal Den
Banish'd from Town, from Manners, and from Men.

'Twas here methought a Glorious Form appear'd,
Yet Awful, as a Goddess long rever'd.
Her Monumental Tower the Skies out-brav'd,
And on her Front was fair Augusta grav'd.
And why, said she, dost thou thus sighing lye?
Why all despondence, yet relief so nigh?
He that does set so many Captives free,
He will, he must, he shall deliver thee.

So bright a Form, Words of such pleasing sound,
Oppress with Pleasure, and with Joy confound.
The Glorious Shape perceiv'd my deep Amaze,
I would have spoke, but I could only gaze.

Know'st thou not Me? what Country is there found,
What Nation where my Name is not renown'd?
Let Vulgar Names, said she, resign to Fate,
I can already boast of more than Mortal Date:
This privilege the British Glory gives,
I'm only then to die, when nothing lives.
Quite from the rising to the setting Sun,
As vast a Round as his my Fame has run.
Let it be either Traffick, Peace or War,
What City sends her Naval Tow'rs so far?
Who o'er the Ocean so triumphant rides?
What Shores are water'd with such wealthy Tides?
Beneath my Feet my Thames for ever flows,
And for my Profit never takes repose.
But shifting Tides to Sea, from Sea to Land,
Do our own Stores, and all the World's command:
While on her Billows to my Hand she brings
The Noblest, Richest, and Remotest things.
Tho round my Walls you scarce perceive a Vine,
Yet half the Vintage of the Year is mine,
And every Lombard Shop an Indian Mine.
What other Town do's there so nobly stand
For Soil, for Health, for Pleasure and Command?
What City do's beside so Lordly rise?
And sit so near a Neighbour to the Skies?
Who less fears War? and when a War do's cease,
Who Richlier does adorn the Arts of Peace?
What Sholes of People pour thro every Street!
In passing on, what Myriads must you meet!
How gay, how richly clad, where'er you come!
What gallant Youths, and Beauties in their Bloom!
Not brighter shines by night the Milky Way,
Than in my Streets the Charming Sex by Day.
Who sooner can than I such Sums produce,
For self-Magnificence, or Publick Use?
Who can her Hand, for Wealth, extend so far,
And with such ready Loans defray a War?
Loans that to Lewis gave such loud Alarms,
He lik'd the Sound worse than the Clank of Arms.
He saw in War the Nerves of War increase,
He saw, advis'd, and straight consents to Peace.
But herein most I pride; this Wealth, these Powers
No Mercenary Troops defend, no Towers
Rise up in my Defence, my Safety's found
Within my self; no Ditches here surround
My Walls; my Thames flows freely in her Bed,
To no forc'd Channels like a Captive led.
Freedom in all, in every Part appears,
Choice gives the Sway in all succeeding Years.
Amongst our selves we raise the Good, the Wise,
Virtue and Labour make the Chosen rise.
Kings of some Empires want our Wealth, our Power
A Duncomb lends a Million in an Hour.
Our Wealth the Spanish Indies does uphold,
And from our Iron Mines we send them Gold.
Yet Kings receive but what the People give;
They make him rich, and yet in plenty live.
They name the Sum, and we forestal the Day;
Others less quick to take, than We to pay.
Augusta this great Blessing gives, that she
Makes all her Sons not only Rich, but Free.

Thou know'st me now, believe what I impart,
I've nam'd the Man shall raise thy drooping Heart.
Stay then no longer thus lamenting here,
But hope a milder Heav'n, and kinder Air,
The rising of thy better Stars are near.
Once were thy Shades e'en with his Presence blest,
When Thee, e'en Thee, he singl'd from the rest;
And kindly smiling on thy Rural Lays,
Crown'd them at once both with Reward and Praise.
'Tis He I mean, who does our Captives free
From more than an Egyptian Slavery:
'Tis he, that shall at last provide for Thee.
'Tis he that everlasting Honour gains
By Nobly striking off my Debtors Chains.
Husbands He to their Wives again does give;
He heard their Dying Cries, and bids 'em live.
So Mighty Paul, and Silas, when they were
Imprison'd, pray'd, and found the Angel there:
The Shackles broke, the Doors all open flew;
But Duncomb's Angel stoops not to so few.
At every Prison, at every Jayl does call,
And, like an Act of Grace, he manumits them all.

'Twas here she paus'd, smiling with such a Grace,
No Furrow seen, no Wrinkle in her Face.
The Awful Dread, which first my Senses strook,
Dissolv'd to Pleasure by her Charming Look.
Let Cheating Priests use little Arts to fright,
But why should Poets their false Fictions write?
Clad in a Stygian Vest, with scatter'd Locks,
The raving Priestess Heav'nly Power invokes.
Black Fumes arise, and from the trembling Ground,
Sad Murmurs, breaking thro' the Temple, sound:
And Flames from the unkindled Altars rise,
As rais'd by Magick Songs, with horrid Cries.
Such the Contrivances by Priests of old,
When Pious Stories to the Crowd they told.
Thus Hell and Horror to the Gods they join,
And make them Terrible, to be Divine.
Poets no more let Verse and Truth dispute,
Nor Human Crimes to Deities impute.
Let Tyrants choose to govern Men by Fear,
The Gods are gentle, but Mankind severe.
Not so Augusta:
For She, the Glorious Genius of our Isle,
Softn'd her Godhead with a Human Smile.
I found the Heav'nly Vision gave Consent;
So poor a Bard might give his Passion vent.

Encourag'd thus, I gently rais'd my Voice:
Say, Goddess, how our Sh'riff became the Choice
Of crowding Throngs, who echoing his Name,
Did him their Darling Magistrate proclaim.
Say, Goddess, how does he become your Theme,
That Name so lately injur'd in Extreme?
An Envious Race I know his Ruin sought,
Declare then how the mighty Change was wrought.
Th'Effect must spring from some Stupendous Cause,
Where Fair Augusta gives such vast Applause.

As Stormy Nights and dark Eclipses may
Set greater Value on succeeding Day:
So Malice raging without Rule or Form,
Exalted him, and rais'd him by the Storm.
Easie, and Rich, in Innocence secure,
He would not bend with little Arts, procure
Success to Projects hatch'd against the State,
Nor help th'Exchequer Cheat, but met his Fate,
Braving the Faction, and their utmost Hate.
Unseasonable Virtue out of time,
Was Duncomb's Fault, and that his only Crime.
He knowing well the narrow self Design,
Shunning base Profit, did his Place resign.
But this the bold Projectors could not bear;
He must be guilty, that themselves may share,
With double Joy, the Vengeance and the Prize,
Two thirds their Avarice could scarce suffice.
Thro thick and thin the Furious Leaders drive,
Set raging out, and like a Storm arrive.
These ruin'd, fall, and others prostrate yield,
And wide Destruction covers all the Field.
Orphans lament, the desolate Widow weeps,
Thousands undone, and yet the Nation sleeps.

Here human Malice might it self display,
And many dark Designs expose to Day.
Here painted to the Life, the haughty Crew
Might in true Colours be expos'd to view.
But I forbear, nor shall their Rage inspire
A Heav'nly Breast with like ill-natur'd Fire.
Let this suffice, expect the happy Day.
When all the Birds of Night and those of Prey
Shall to the Deserts fly, to make the Virtuous Way.
It is enough I disappoint their Aim,
Secure the Guiltless in their Wealth and Fame,
And fix in Honour Duncomb's injur'd Name.
Such is the Temper of an English Soul,
It yields to Softness, but abhors Controul.
The frighted World all arm'd in his Defence,
Who either had good Nature or good Sense.
Tir'd with their Spite, and all their Hopes o'erpast
To ruin him, they left the Chase at last,
But sullenly, just as the Bear withdraws,
The Lamb redeem'd that fill'd his griping Paws.
By the known Laws he did himself acquit,
Rescu'd by Heav'n from Malice, and from Wit,
From Bribes, and Power, from the devouring Jaw
Of nigh Oppression, to take place as Law.
The City sensible, what Men conspire
Against his Innocence, they soon took fire;
Touch'd with his Sufferings, knowing his Desert,
All with one Voice, unanimous in Heart,
My Sons advance him to the Shrieval Name,
Where now he honours That, and gives the Nation Fame.

Our Royal Master by this time was come,
As late with Laurel, crown'd with Olive, home.
Never of all our Martial Kings, from Heav'n
To Britain has there yet a Prince been given,
Who sooner did in Camps arrive at Fame,
Or past more Dangers to a deathless Name.
Nor did the shining Chase of Glory cease,
Till he had crown'd his Martial Toils with Peace.
The Hero's Heat drives no cool Thought away,
His People long for Peace, without delay
He gloriously procures the wish'd for Day.
Plenty and Safety, with their brooding Wings
Extended wide, produce all useful things;
In Peace the Plowman reaps, in Peace the Poet sings.
To happy England had not Fate decreed,
That from that Glorious Pair none should succeed,
So much th'expecting World seem'd to require,
From Mary's Virtue, and from Nassau's Fire.
Nature, deficient to so great a Task,
Would nothing give, when we too much did ask.
We were ungrateful for the present Store,
Worthless of what we had, yet craving more.
Those who from Tyranny redeem the Land,
In Fame's large Temple shall for ever stand.
Greater than they, whose Conquest Trophies rear,
Such the Camilli, such the Decii were:
Whose Names in Story are more sacred far
Than theirs, who happy in Invasive War,
Brought Western Gold, and Eastern Spices home;
These were admir'd, but those belov'd in Rome.

This Glorious King returning to our Isle,
Receiv'd th'intended Martyr with a Smile;
Pleas'd to bestow on injur'd Innocence
Favours, which leave to Malice no pretence.
Whom the King honours, and the People chuse,
To such a one who can Applause refuse,
Fit for the Praises of the chastest Muse?
Let then his unjust Sufferings be repaid
By Praises due, for since my Walls were laid,
Never a Subject more befriended Trade.
Who in his Office ever rais'd so high
AUGUSTA's Name for Hospitality?
What Table thro the Nation does afford
So vast a Plenty as his Shrieval Board?
Who for all sorts so fitly does prepare?
The Great, the Poor are equally his Care;
And Wit and Vertue still are welcome there.
Mean while the sparkling Wines around him move,
Th'Inspiring Nectar which the Muses love.
Who e'er the City's Interest studied more,
Or better Laws propos'd to feed the Poor?
Nor does he, splitting on the common Shelf,
Propose to others, what he shuns himself.
To give by Driblets (which is chiefly done)
Is but to keep the Needy starving on.
He lays out his Relief at nobler Rates,
His Dole's a Market, and his Gifts Estates.

I here had answer'd, but the Dame withdrew,
And with her Sleep retir'd, and left me too;
But left th'Impression deep upon my Mind
Of Duncomb honour'd, and Augusta kind.

Forgive me, Sir, if thus opprest with Spleen,
I treat you with this Visionary Scene:
Nor let the Muses lose me your Esteem,
Since they petition only but in a Dream:
In Dreams they live, and chiefly Dreams regard,
But most they err, when dreaming of Reward.
But tho my Sleep dissents, I waking near
Upon that Subject, shall offend your Ear.
These Melancholy Vapours bred at sight
Of Winter, with the Spring will take their flight,
When op'ning Sweets, and universal Green,
Produce a Gay Inimitable Scene.
Tho now with Rains, and blighting Blasts we strive,
That Glorious Season will again revive.
The Tuneful Choir thro every Field and Grove,
Will then renew their Musick, and their Love.
With them th'Exulting Muse her Voice shall raise;
And waking then, I'll sing my Patron's Praise.