Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Life of your Country's Hopes! the Bard, whose Strain
Aspiring, late, to Power, aspir'd in vain,
Unshock'd by hapless Disappointments past,
Renews his Pray'r, and hopes you'll hear at last.

Now, not for Government of Ducks he sues,—
A muddy Province! and below the Muse!
Poets are born for Feeders of Mankind,
And Place is best, proportion'd to the Mind.
Wisely you knew it, and but made me wait
For fitter Fortune, in a nobler State;
Whence some well-judg'd Equivalent might rise,
And Wit find Favour in a great Man's Eyes!
The Stars are kind;—Behold a vacant Place!
And Fortune smiles; ev'n in a Poet's Face!
Pow'r, Honour, Business, Profit, all agree
To make (strange Chance!) a noted Man of me!
Nothing to wish, but his prolifick Word,
Whose Pleasure can—what can it not afford?

And now, the Patron's Meaning Smile enquires
What wish'd Equivalent his Bard desires.—
“Give me its Name and Quality, (he says,)
“If I approve, you're made for all your Days.”
With grateful Rev'rence, and a gladden'd Heart,
Thus I—“O Walpole! Theme of Poet's Art!
“If e'er my Muse thy list'ning Ear cou'd pierce,
“Make me a First great Minister of Verse.
“Important Sound, to call Ambition forth!
“Hail to the Poet-Laureat of the North.
Nor, Eusden, tho' thy Brother Sov'reign made,
Mean I thy peaceful Regions to invade,
Conscious, alas! that all thy Toils are vain,
On English Ground, at once to please and reign.

Berwick on Tweed thy Ne plus ultra stands!
Thy Name, unknown, in Caledonian Lands!
Mine, far and wide, has warm'd a frozen Clime!
Remotest Thule celebrates my Rhyme!
Orkney and Zetland my Applauses sound!
And I'm among the Hebrides renow'd!
Where is the Highland Hill, or Lowland Tree,
That bears no grateful Characters of me?
All read, with Wonder, my unrival'd Lays,
And know no Head-piece, worthier of the Bays.
Ev'n Pennicuick, and Ramsay, own my Claim!
'Tis past Dispute, when once confess'd by them.

The Name of the present Laureat of England.

The Names of Two rival Verse-makers, now living in Scotland.

Nor would I take the Laureat's Hire for nought—
A Sine-Cure indulges want of Thought.

I wou'd, in Poetry, a Pastor prove,
And guide my tuneful Flock to Walpole's Love.
Charm'd by his Worth, their Looks shall all grow gay,
And sullen Faction smile Despair away.
O cou'd my Patron search my labouring Brain!
What Hopes, what Schemes, my busy Thoughts contain!
What Politicks, in Poetry, I've found!
What Projects, to make Him, and Me, renown'd!
Soon wou'd he stamp his Fiat on my Lays,
And soon prefer his Mitchell to the Bays.
Hark! He approves;—“Give North and South their Due;
“The laurell'd Scots should have their Laureat too!
“Inflam'd amidst hereditary Snows,
“In their brave Bosoms, Love of Glory glows!

“Unchill'd by wintry Bleaks, their Spirits blaze,
“And Arts and Sciences proclaim their Praise.
Io Triumphe! Io Pæans sing!
Let the glad News to great Edina ring!
Behold, my Friends, behold a Tun of Wine—
(An annual Income for the Northern Nine!)
Twice Fifty Pounds!—Now, greet my State with Odes:
Let George and Walpole, rise o'er modern Gods,
To George, to Walpole, consecrate your Lays:
But mine be all your Hailings, and the Bays.
Already, lo! I see a crowded Hall!
A frequent Congregation! Poets all!
Behold! I mount, inspir'd, my sacred Throne!
Hear! I declaim, with an enchanting Tone!

Kirkmen, themselves, begin to think me Good,
And, now, repent they were so blindly rude!
Fain to their Fold they'd bring the banish'd Sheep!
Fain, to themselves, the Poet-Laureat keep!
Free Testimonials, proffer'd, come at last;
With large Indulgence for Offences past:
But, heedless, I my proper Province mind,
And leave the Cripple to conduct the Blind.
Intent to polish and refine the Young,
I rack Invention, and new-tune my Tongue.
Heav'ns! how I lecture! ('tis a Laureat's Part)
Like Aristotle, on poetick Art.
Horace, and Vida, Boileau, Buckingham,
Are Harbingers to my exalted Name:

Their various Institutions I'd make known,
And add a thousand Beauties of my own.

The Presbytery of Edinburgh refus'd the Author (who had studied Divinity) free Testimonials, because he had read Plays, and would not acknowledge the Use of them to be simply, and absolutely unlawful.

Authors who have severally written Arts of Poetry fit to be lectur'd on.

Yet let me no scholastick Jargon use;
Pedantick Methods are below the Muse.
I'd train my tuneful Sons a nobler Way,
And, in one View, poetick Art display.
The living Bards shou'd teach them what to shun!
The Dead, how they immortal Garlands won!

Thus I'd declaim;—“My Sons, consider well
“Your Laureat's Dictates, as ye hope to excell.
“ Think not, by writing much, t'establish Fame,
“Like B---e, whom Damnation cannot tame;

“Nor seek, by Spleen or Spite, Success to find,
“Like D---s, Scourge and Scorn of all Mankind.
“Avoid, as you'd be guarded from a Pest,
“V---h's Mechanicks, C---e's bawdy Jest,
“T---p's priestly Rage, and H---'s party Zeal;
“Nor sleep, like J---n; nor, like C---r, steal.
“Save you, good Heav'n! from S---t's unhallow'd Vein,
“From P---e's Resentment, and from H---ll's Disdain,
“W---d's Self-flatt'ry, Y---g's unmeaning Rant;
“T---d's low Farce, and W---s' eternal Cant.
“Never, like P---s, think hard Labour Wit;
“Nor own, like S---e, what abler Authors writ;
“Like S---n, Farce with Tragedy confound;
“Like F---n with forc'd Similies abound;
“Like G---e, or like T---l, sing no more,
“To make Men doubt if e'er you sung before;

“Like W---n, J---b, M---e, and F---d, disperse
“Lampoon and Lewdness, jumbled into Verse.
“O let no Son of mine be deem'd, in Town,
“Coxcomb, like B---l; or, like G---y, a Clown;
“Punster, like A---t; or, like B---d, a Sot,
“A Tool, like S---ll; or, like S---e, nought.

N. B. The Author design'd this, and the following Paragraph as a Contrast: Like Light and Shade, the one sets off the other with Advantage. That which points out the peculiar Beauties and Excellencies of the Dead, would give little Offence, even tho' the Characters were unjust. But this, wherein the Faults and Foibles of the Living are represented, however justly, may be misconstrued by narrow Minds. Therefore, the Author hereby declares to all, whom it concerneth, that he has no personal Pique at any one, and cannot be at War with all the Fraternity; besides, he has nam'd none whom he does not esteem; and omitted few, whom he thought worth naming.

“But wou'd you shine? With due Attention read,
“And imitate the Beauties of the Dead.
“Let Homer lend you Majesty and Fire,
“And Virgil with judicious Rage inspire:
“Let Horace gay Variety impart,
“And Ovid's Softness humanize the Heart.
“Nor pass the English Excellencies by—
“Heav'ns! what bright Beauties in their Remnants lie!
“How rare t'impropriate Chaucer's cheerful Vein,
“Spencer's rich Fancy, Shakespear's nervous Strain,

“Milton's sublime, and Cowley's glitt'ring Wit,
“With all that Denham thought, or Waller writ?
“How great the Bard! his Labour how divine!
“Where Johnson's Depth, with Dryden's Numbers join?
“Where Butler's Humour, and Roscommon's Taste,
“Etheridge's Manners, Prior's courtly Jest,
“Rowe's Flow of Words, and Addison's good Fate,
“Conspire to make one Character compleat!
“Their various Virtues, blended in your Lays,
“Wou'd stamp Distinction, and perpetuate Praise.

Blest Sermon! Hail to the ingenious Throng,
That, list'ning, learn Perfection from my Song.
Cherish'd beneath my most auspicious Wing;
The Scotian Youth, like honour'd Ancients, sing!
See! ravish'd Crowds, with Rev'rence gather round,
Admire the Doctrine, and devour the Sound.

Disputes to my Decision are referr'd,
And what, like ipse dixit, is rever'd?

“My Friends (I cry) my purpos'd Task to aid,
“Be all your Heads, with mine, together, laid:
“What must his Learning, what his Genius, be,
“Who sings a Walpole, as he's known to me?
“To touch a Theme, so nobly warm, aright,
“Greece, Rome, and Britain, shou'd their Pow'rs unite.

'Tis said;—But lo! from far, amidst the Crowd,
A thinking Bard replies, serenely loud,
“Well has our Laureat Mitchell sought our Aid:
“The ablest, in such Tasks, are most afraid!
“But, as Resolves, so weighty, ask some Time,
“And Reason still shou'd be preferr'd to Rhyme,
“I humbly move,—that we postpone his Suit,
“'Till his chymeric Pow'r grows absolute.