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

Twice has the Muse to Walpole told my Case,
And twice petition'd for some puny Place;
But He, wise Statesman! weighing my Desert,
By meaning Silence, more inflames my Heart.
Mitchell was born (methinks his Smiles import)
For Honours, and for Offices, at Court!

So prophesied my Grandame at my Birth,
When Signs and Wonders usher'd me to Earth.

Then forward let my favour'd Genius move,
I but obey what was decreed Above.
If ought indecent from my Fingers fly,
Prevailing Fate is more in Fault, than I.
Poets are influenc'd by celestial Pow'rs;
'Tis theirs to dictate, and to write is ours.

Resistance, when the Spirit moves, were vain;
Ev'n now, I feel it working in my Brain;
Like Secrets, in a Woman's Bosom pent,
It frets and rumbles, 'till it finds a Vent.

Yet, howsoe'er inspir'd, Hibernian Brass,
Dear, cath'lick, Virtue! make my Labour pass:

Thy friendly Aid is needful, to promote
The proper Means t'attain my destin'd Lot,
And make me stand confess'd a Man of Note.

Thus qualify'd, the bashful Muse grows bold,
And grasps at Glory, Government, and Gold.
Unblushing, now I claim the Royal Grace,
And ask (strange Flight!) a Secretary's Place!
'Tis fit there be, at least, One Bard of State—
Who knows but mine may prove the lucky Fate?
It suits my Soul—and, were I but preferr'd,
What Man of Verse would then be more rever'd?
I'd cut a Figure, so extremely new,
The World, with Wonder, would my Conduct view!
Yet never wou'd forget I walk'd on Foot—
I'd be important; but I wou'd not strut.

Mortals (whose Taste 'twere criminal to hit!
By Nature curst with the wrong Side of Wit!)
Will shake their Pates, and damn my daring Aim,
Or, sneering, shew Propensity to blame;
Mitchell aspire to Government! (they'll cry)
A Poet fit for Offices so high!
Forgetful, that Mæcenas was a Bard,
And Hallifax's Muse had this Reward;
That Verse rais'd Sylvius to the triple Crown,
And Buchanan to Places and Renown;
Distinguish'd Prior from the common Crowd,
And Pow'r and Praise on Addison bestow'd.

But I, tho' bold the new Demand may seem,
Appeal to WALPOLE's Judgment and Esteem;
To Him, great Arbiter of Truth and Wit!
To Him and Reason! I the Cause submit.

Say, is the Soul, inspir'd with Heav'nly Rage,
In State Affairs unable to engage?
Are Arts, and Laws, and Politicks, unknown
To tuneful Sons of Helicon alone?
Say, if the greatest Difficulty lies,
In painting Nature, or chastising Vice?
If, to crown Virtue, to preserve the Peace,
To quell Sedition, and our Wealth encrease,
More great, laborious, and important, be,
Than to write Verse, like Milton, or like me?
Did Phalaris receive a weak Reply?
Or had Stesichorus more Worth than I?

Hail Poesie! Inspirer of the Mind!
Thou art the Test, and Glory, of Mankind!
From Thee, all mortal Acts receive a Grace!
Thy Sons are born prepar'd for any Place!
By Intuition, every Thing they know—
But Men of Prose, however sure, are slow!
By lazy Labour, These acquire a Name:
But Those, like Eagles, tow'r, at once to Fame!

Yet, O ye Witlings, an egregious Throng!
Who think there's mighty Merit, in a Song;
That, if ye can but versify with Ease,
And tag dull Prose with Rhime, you've Right to please;
Or, labouring hard, perhaps a Piece produce,
Which Rooke might call a Copy of the Muse;
Avaunt—nor, vainly, think the Honours, due
To genuine Poets, are design'd for you.
Say, are your Souls impress'd with Stamp divine?
On every Subject, can ye nobly shine?
From barren Fields, make beauteous Flow'rs arise?
And, in poor Soils, display a Paradise?
Can ye, in Garrets, scorn the Vulgar Great?
And, when ye want a Groat, outbrave your Fate?
Dare ye, divinely, injur'd Truth assert?
And sooth the Sorrows of the Sufferer's Heart?

With Zeal impartial, proud Ambition sting?
And clouded Charms of tatter'd Virtue sing?
Ah! meanly Soul'd, in vain ye court the Bays—
In vain aspire to ancient Poets Praise—
As well might Fops, or Clowns, pretend to teach
Hoadly, and Clark, and Waterland to preach;
Correct great Newton; Law, in Figures, match;
And rival Peterborough's quick Dispatch;
Do Good, like Chandos; or, like Dorset, grace
A Court with Virtues, worthy of his Race;
Like Stair, be modest—yet, in Arts of State,
Like him, accomplish'd, and divinely Great;
Direct the Senate with a Compton's Skill;
The Judgment Seat, like King, with Honour, fill;
Th' Achilles of the War, like Greenwich, move;
Or th' Atlas of the State, like WALPOLE, prove.

How few, who deal in Metre, were design'd
For Offices of Pow'r, in any Kind?
How few cut out for Government appear?
An universal Genius is so rare!
But, as no Rules without Exceptions be,
Behold an Instance of the Thing, in Me!

It is confest—The ablest Umpire stands,
Well satisfy'd, that Trust, in Mitchell's Hands,
Wou'd be discharg'd, with an impartial Zeal,
For GEORGE's Glory, and Britannia's Weal.
He knows his honest Poet would disdain
To make the publick Loss a private Gain;
To head a Faction, or encourage Strife,
To prove a Cypher, or a Sot in Life;

To loll supine, like lazy Lords; be dull,
Yet of himself superlatively full.
Mitchell, divinely fir'd, has nobler Views,
Seeks sacred Truth, and Equity pursues,
The publick Good prefers above his own,
And covets Grandeur less, than fair Renown.

Heav'n too approves—For, lo! a vacant Place—
And who more proper to succeed his Grace?
Scotia demands a Secretary still—
To sink the Office might be taken ill.
A Name, a Shadow, tho' there were no more,
Is requisite to gloss the Matter o'er.
Is it a Sine-Cure? 'Tis shap'd for me!
And, if 'tis Business, I'd not idle be.
Let me but try—and, if I misbehave,
I'll ne'er One Shilling of the Salary crave.

Dubb me no Knight, or Blue, or Green, or Red,
But, in the Tow'r, confine me, 'till I'm dead,
With Pen, Ink, Paper, Water, Light, and Bread.

Ne'er had Man's Fancy more Delight in Dreams,
Than mine receives from high and mighty Schemes.
How I'd reform and civilize the North!
Controul Rebellion! and distinguish Worth!
From labouring Clowns, remove Complaints of Want!
And rid the Kirk of Bigotry and Cant!
Then Charity, and Money, shou'd be found!
And Learning, Truth, and Liberty, abound!
No furious Zeal shou'd Then embroil the Land!
No poor Man groan beneath th' Oppressor's Hand!
No Sufferer cry, in vain, for due Redress!
No noble Genius languish in Distress!

Arts, Arms, Religion, Sciences, and Trade,
Shou'd flourish all, beneath my friendly Shade.
Mæcenas, Woolsey, Richlieu, Names renown'd!
Shou'd Then, in my Superior Name, be drown'd.

How sacred wou'd the mighty Monarch be,
Who boasts a premier Minister, like Me!

Yet, 'midst the troublous Toils of State, sometimes,
My Soul wou'd take its dear Delight, in Rhimes—
Rhimes! not Amusements to my self alone,
But useful to my Country, when I'm gone.
I'd sing its Story; and produce to Light
Important Facts, involv'd in silent Night.
The Muse can Merit from Oblivion save,
And glorify the Virtuous, and the Brave.

Methinks, I see the Scotian Race unborn,
By me inspir'd, their native Land adorn!
Observe the Aged point the Way to Fame!
And hear the Children lisp their Poet's Name!
All read with Pleasure, and with Pride rehearse
Th' immortal Annals of my Patriot Verse;
How their Forefathers, venerable grown!
Liv'd, sought, and dy'd, from First Great Fergus down.
Then shou'd our Heroes, long, long dead, revive,
And, clear'd from Clouds of dark Oblivion live!
The World again shou'd great Galgacus see,
And Sholto's Resurrection owe to me!
Wallace, in Verse, shou'd prove a Patriot still,
And Bruce, with Wonder, coming Ages fill!
Fresh Laurel crown th'unrival'd Douglas, Line;
In deathless Glory, Hays and Seatons shine,
And Campbells, Grahams, and Murrays, be divine.

What Wonders wou'd the Muse, and I, not do,
Were we prefer'd, and set but fair in View!

Yes, Mirabel! It is the Statesman's Part,
To give to Truth the Preference of Art.
Integrity deserves the first Regard,
And cannot miss, while Walpole rules, Reward.
Well have you sung the Praise to Virtue due,
And set the Charms of Friendship fair in View.
A Kingdom, curst with Men of Manners loose,
And Minds unsocial, needed such a Muse.
In Season you appear; When but to write,
Or think, in Verse, is to be ruin'd quite.

Poets, by You, get Credit, even from Those,
Who wou'd distrust their Creed, if 'twere not Prose.
Yet, O retract—recall the Bolt you've thrown
To baulk bold Genius, or to bring it down;
For, certes, Wit and Virtue are not Foes
In Men of Verse, and always Friends in Prose.
Why so distinguish'd? Why, with Rival Rage,
Strive they the Statesman's Favour to engage?
Compatible, at least, they are avow'd;
For are not both in Mirabel allow'd?
Or say, is Place for clod-pate Virtue fit?
Virtue, without the social Aid of Wit!
Virtue, alone, is like a Snail, that creeps,
Or heavy Clown, who, on his Journey, sleeps;

Expos'd to Fops, and Coxcombs Scorn it lies,
Loses its Way, and unregarded dies;
If friendly Genius does not interpose,
And bear it far beyond the Paths of Prose.
How low a Figure Virtue, singly, makes!
How liable, in Office, to Mistakes!
Genius prevents, or wards the publick Scoff,
And sets plain Probity with Honour off.
It animates, and adds a double Grace,
As sprightly Eyes enrich a lovely Face.

Yet, Muse, detract not from dear Virtue's Praise,
Nor Genius high, above its Value, raise,
Tho' That but like an Ass, in Business, moves,
And This an active, lordly Lion proves.
But let the Man, prefer'd by WALPOLE, be
Possest of Both, like Mirabel, and Me;

Or, if disjoin'd, the Place to Genius give,
And, on a Pension, let plain Virtue live.

Mortals, my Freedom and Conceit excuse—
Which of you all wou'd not Distinction chuse?
Who is not Solon in his own Conceit,
With Sense, Experience, Arts, and Spirit, fit
To guide the State, and give the Stamp to Wit?
Ye think yourselves sufficient—I but tell
The secret Thoughts, that in your Bosoms dwell.
Ye are, in Heart, as impudent and vain—
I, more ingenuous, your dark Sense explain;
And, were the Truth, perhaps, but clearly known,
My Wishes are more modest, than your own.

Who knows but I (if 'twere my lucky Fate
To be declar'd a Secretary of State)

Wou'd, like King Saul, most slily step aside,
And, for a while, my worthy Person hide?

But, after all, shou'd WALPOLE gravely say,
“Mitchell, you must not turn your Head this Way—
Check'd, to my Patron's Judgment I'd agree,
And Roxburgh might resume his Post for Me.

Nay, whether I shall be preferr'd to Place,
Or humbly sneak from Court with some Disgrace,
My purpos'd Muse no other Means shall try,
Nor cou'd she, cordial, any where apply,
Since 'tis resolv'd by the whole House of Me,
That I'll not rise, O WALPOLE, but by Thee.

Phalaris, Tyrant of Agrigentum, in an Epistle to Stesichorus, the Poet, says, “But, for Heaven's Sake, tell me, what made you, who are a Poet, forsake the quiet and sedate Course of Life, which that Art affords, to throw your self into the tumultuous State of a busy Patriot, when you might have enjoy'd that pleasing Ease the Muses delight in, unforc'd? Now, since your Ambition has transported you from a Poet to a Statesman, you must no longer expect the Rewards of a Poet, but of a pretending Medler in Government, who aims at Things above his Capacity. Farewell.” Select Letters of the Ancients.

Stesichorus, the Poet, in his Answer to Phalaris's Epistle, says, “I wonder at your odd Notion, that because I am a Poet, I should not aim at State Affairs; for do you think He, that has Capacity to write as a Poet, should find any Difficulty in administring the the Affairs of the Common-Wealth? The Difficulty of that is not so great: 'Tis only made so by Knaves of a private Spirit, who contrive and interweave their own Interests with that of the Government. The Administration of Justice, the Execution of the Laws, punishing of Vice, rewarding Virtue, disciplining the People, securing Trade, encouraging Arts, providing for Publick Security, and the like, are Things perhaps none are so fit for as a Poet; for he is not biass'd by private Gain to Partiality; he regards his own Interest last; and knows, that while the Publick's in Danger, nothing private can be secure. A Poet loves the publick Good, and publick Liberty above all private Advantages; for he can never enjoy that pleasing and sacred Rest, you speak of, under a despotic Government, where nothing is secure the Tyrant dislikes; where all Words are liable to be punish'd; and, where Liberty of Acting and Words are restrain'd, there can be no Room for any generous Art. Farewell.

Author of a late celebrated Epistle to the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole.

Lines in the Epistle.

“But yet, believe your undesigning Friend,
“When Truth and Genius for your Choice contend,
“Tho' both have Weight, when in the Ballance cast,
“Let Probity be first, and Parts the last.