 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
79
THE SHOE-HEEL:
A RHAPSODY.
Dicam insigne recens, adhuc
Indictum Ore alio ------
Hor.
Indictum Ore alio ------
Hor.
Ill fare the Miscreant, who, to Mischief prone,
In fatal Hour, by Star malignant rul'd,
The whole World's Crimes appropriating, first,
Invented Styles, dire Structures! to oppose
And break the peaceful Course of Passengers
In rural Fields. The Wretch, by Heav'n abandon'd,
Had studied long, and try'd ten thousand Sins
Of blackest Dye, ere this curs'd Art was found,
To thoughtful Men eternally a Plague.
This, whilom wandering by fair Iver's Stream,
Across the Meads, unwary, I experienc'd;
For, (wonderful to tell!) as stradling o'er
A Log, that high above its Fellows rais'd
Its Head inglorious, sudden slipp'd my Foot,
And, from my Shoe, its Heel attendant forc'd,
Deplorable! A Step of Danger full!
So had it prov'd to my important Limbs,
But that they're sacred, as my Muse, inspir'd
With Thoughts of Virtue, and Killmorey's House,
Bless'd House! where Plenty and Content abound;
And He, young Peer, the Shame of hoary Years,
And Standard of Nobility, vouchsafes
Friendship to Bards. O long, long may He live
His Country's Blessing, and its Boast renown'd!
This be my Morning and my Evening Prayer.
Of him, most grateful Theme! my Thoughts were full,
As from the Style, astonied, erst I fell,
Yet rose unhurt—Such was the Care of Heav'n!
So to be sav'd, I'll ever have such Thoughts,
And to Killmorey consecrate the Muse.
In fatal Hour, by Star malignant rul'd,
The whole World's Crimes appropriating, first,
Invented Styles, dire Structures! to oppose
And break the peaceful Course of Passengers
In rural Fields. The Wretch, by Heav'n abandon'd,
Had studied long, and try'd ten thousand Sins
Of blackest Dye, ere this curs'd Art was found,
To thoughtful Men eternally a Plague.
80
Across the Meads, unwary, I experienc'd;
For, (wonderful to tell!) as stradling o'er
A Log, that high above its Fellows rais'd
Its Head inglorious, sudden slipp'd my Foot,
And, from my Shoe, its Heel attendant forc'd,
Deplorable! A Step of Danger full!
So had it prov'd to my important Limbs,
But that they're sacred, as my Muse, inspir'd
With Thoughts of Virtue, and Killmorey's House,
Bless'd House! where Plenty and Content abound;
And He, young Peer, the Shame of hoary Years,
And Standard of Nobility, vouchsafes
Friendship to Bards. O long, long may He live
His Country's Blessing, and its Boast renown'd!
This be my Morning and my Evening Prayer.
Of him, most grateful Theme! my Thoughts were full,
81
Yet rose unhurt—Such was the Care of Heav'n!
So to be sav'd, I'll ever have such Thoughts,
And to Killmorey consecrate the Muse.
Had Vice employ'd my Mind, or any Theme
Less worthy than that Peer, of Parts egregious!
My Neck itself, in Twain disjoin'd, had then
Vented last Breath, Terrifick Thought! Alone,
And unassisted, I had left the Stage,
Stripp'd of my mortal Garments, immature;
And, on the Banks of Iver's crystal Stream,
My Ghost had murmur'd with the rolling Tide,
Incessant! dismal Consort to my Friends,
Shou'd any Friends my Funeral survive.
Less worthy than that Peer, of Parts egregious!
My Neck itself, in Twain disjoin'd, had then
Vented last Breath, Terrifick Thought! Alone,
And unassisted, I had left the Stage,
Stripp'd of my mortal Garments, immature;
And, on the Banks of Iver's crystal Stream,
My Ghost had murmur'd with the rolling Tide,
Incessant! dismal Consort to my Friends,
Shou'd any Friends my Funeral survive.
82
Thou, Stuart, Friend select, wou'dst then have wept
O'er my benighted Corps; and seen it laid,
With due Decorum, in a solemn Vault,
From Eyes and Hands, unhallowed, far apart.
Near fair Stuarta, too soon faded Flow'r,
Sister of Murray's Earl, Great Scotian Chief,
In Church of Iver, consecrated Ground,
My stranger Clay might decently have lain,
Pacifick, till the dreadful Trumpet's Sound
Summon the Dead to Judgment, Great Assize!
To Sons of Men eternally momentuous!
O'er my benighted Corps; and seen it laid,
With due Decorum, in a solemn Vault,
From Eyes and Hands, unhallowed, far apart.
Near fair Stuarta, too soon faded Flow'r,
Sister of Murray's Earl, Great Scotian Chief,
In Church of Iver, consecrated Ground,
My stranger Clay might decently have lain,
Pacifick, till the dreadful Trumpet's Sound
Summon the Dead to Judgment, Great Assize!
To Sons of Men eternally momentuous!
Mean while, Killmorey, generous Lord, had deign'd
To wait my Hearse, and see due Honours paid
To Bard, late lov'd. Nor had'st ev'n Thou, Maria,
Pattern of Virtue and refin'd Behaviour!
Deny'd thy condescending Grace. Perhaps
Thy Female Offspring, heavenly fair! had join'd
Maternal Pity; and vouchsaf'd, lamenting,
To say of me, “He dy'd, alas! too soon,
“And merited a better Fate.” Sweet Words
From Lips more sweet! so to be prais'd and mourn'd,
What Poet would not die? bless'd Elegy,
Inspir'd by Excellence so near Divine!
To wait my Hearse, and see due Honours paid
To Bard, late lov'd. Nor had'st ev'n Thou, Maria,
Pattern of Virtue and refin'd Behaviour!
83
Thy Female Offspring, heavenly fair! had join'd
Maternal Pity; and vouchsaf'd, lamenting,
To say of me, “He dy'd, alas! too soon,
“And merited a better Fate.” Sweet Words
From Lips more sweet! so to be prais'd and mourn'd,
What Poet would not die? bless'd Elegy,
Inspir'd by Excellence so near Divine!
Yet stop, my Fancy—the Idea pains:
'Tis better far, that I the Danger 'scap'd,
Exulting: Ev'n my Ancle is unsprain'd!
Only, like a lame Traveller, o'er the Fields,
Darkling, I hopp'd. So Mulciber, of Old,
(As Homer, Sire of Verse, majestick, sings)
Limp'd as he walk'd; for, thrown by angry Jove,
Sheer o'er the crystal Battlements of Heav'n,
A Summer's Day he fell; and, in the Fall,
Batter'd his Skull and Heel, on Lemnian Ground.
This Vulcan was a God! a Mortal I,
By Birth—But deathless, by the Muse, confirm'd!
As heal'd, by Sinthians He, so was my Shoe,
By Killingsworth, at Iver much Renown'd;
Cobler in Chief to the laborious Swains!
'Tis better far, that I the Danger 'scap'd,
Exulting: Ev'n my Ancle is unsprain'd!
Only, like a lame Traveller, o'er the Fields,
Darkling, I hopp'd. So Mulciber, of Old,
(As Homer, Sire of Verse, majestick, sings)
Limp'd as he walk'd; for, thrown by angry Jove,
Sheer o'er the crystal Battlements of Heav'n,
84
Batter'd his Skull and Heel, on Lemnian Ground.
This Vulcan was a God! a Mortal I,
By Birth—But deathless, by the Muse, confirm'd!
As heal'd, by Sinthians He, so was my Shoe,
By Killingsworth, at Iver much Renown'd;
Cobler in Chief to the laborious Swains!
To him, great Man! did soon a trusty Page,
Eager t'oblige a Bard (for all Domesticks
Of Lord Killmorey boast a Taste refin'd)
Convey my Calches. He, well-skill'd in Art,
In Minutes few, in perfect Union join'd
The sever'd Parts. So whilom Anna spoke
Discordant Kingdoms into lasting Peace.
Eager t'oblige a Bard (for all Domesticks
Of Lord Killmorey boast a Taste refin'd)
Convey my Calches. He, well-skill'd in Art,
In Minutes few, in perfect Union join'd
The sever'd Parts. So whilom Anna spoke
Discordant Kingdoms into lasting Peace.
85
O may kind Pow'rs his pious Pains reward,
And soon distorted Muscles of his Wife,
(Of which my broken Calches was a Type
Prophetick,) be replac'd! prodigious Chasm
In Female Mould! So yawn'd Rome's Forum wide,
'Till Curtius, noble Youth! jump'd in, undaunted.
But Killingsworth, heroick Youngster, forth
From Orifice wide, discontinuous, broke;
Promise of future Usefulness to Men!
Offspring immortal, of a deathless Sire,
O'er rev'rend Crispin's self Superior fam'd;
Or him, who, whistling, happy in his Stall,
Eighth Harry, Royal Rambler, erst observ'd,
Envious, astonish'd; and, ambitious won,
By means of Shoe, by regal Force unheel'd,
To Friendship high. Such shou'd the Friendship be
Of Kings and Coblers. So great Harry judg'd,
And to a Cellar call'd his lov'd Compeer;
For Wine reveals and joins the Hearts of Men.
Social, they drank, and laugh'd, and talk'd, and sung;
Nor parted, till, in homely Hall, a Pot
Of nappy Ale, twice ten Years barrell'd up,
And Anno Domini with Rev'rence nam'd,
Was quaff'd. But Joan, of Fellowship the Bane,
Waking from Sleep, and grumbling, drove the Prince
To Court, reluctant: Yet not ere join'd Hands
Sanction'd the mutual Promise of true Love
And Friendship lasting. Soon to Court the Son
Of Crispin hied, a City Beau! to find
His Harry Tudor; not without Consent,
(Who wou'd have thought it?) of imperious Joan!
But Wives, sometimes, are christianly dispos'd!
Can Language tell the Cobler's vast Surprize,
Terrors, Distraction, when in Royal Robes
He found his Fellow? but divested soon
Of Majesty and State, to Cellar rich,
Th' indulgent Prince the welcom Fav'rite led,
And drank him up to Sov'reignty of Soul!
Fit Partner and Companion then confest!
Mirth was renew'd, and Friendship faster bound.
Nor stop'd Great Harry, till fair forty Marks,
Huge Pension then! were settled on the Man
Of gentle Craft. Example take, ye Kings;
And wisely chuse the Fav'rites of your Grace.
Merit, like Air, is unconfin'd and free,
But most in Stalls and humble Huts abounds.
Did not divine Eumæus keep the Hogs?
And, in his Garden, old Laertes seek
Sweet Consolation for his absent Son,
Ulysses sage; nor yet disdain'd to plow
And dung his Ground with his imperial Hand?
This weighing well, I, more than mortal Bard,
Have made a Friend of Killingsworth, renown'd!
Ne'er may the Union of our Hearts be broke.
Vain Fear! while Iver nappy Ale affords;
Or various Wines Killmorey's Cellar stores.
And soon distorted Muscles of his Wife,
(Of which my broken Calches was a Type
Prophetick,) be replac'd! prodigious Chasm
In Female Mould! So yawn'd Rome's Forum wide,
'Till Curtius, noble Youth! jump'd in, undaunted.
But Killingsworth, heroick Youngster, forth
From Orifice wide, discontinuous, broke;
Promise of future Usefulness to Men!
Offspring immortal, of a deathless Sire,
O'er rev'rend Crispin's self Superior fam'd;
Or him, who, whistling, happy in his Stall,
86
Envious, astonish'd; and, ambitious won,
By means of Shoe, by regal Force unheel'd,
To Friendship high. Such shou'd the Friendship be
Of Kings and Coblers. So great Harry judg'd,
And to a Cellar call'd his lov'd Compeer;
For Wine reveals and joins the Hearts of Men.
Social, they drank, and laugh'd, and talk'd, and sung;
Nor parted, till, in homely Hall, a Pot
Of nappy Ale, twice ten Years barrell'd up,
And Anno Domini with Rev'rence nam'd,
Was quaff'd. But Joan, of Fellowship the Bane,
Waking from Sleep, and grumbling, drove the Prince
To Court, reluctant: Yet not ere join'd Hands
Sanction'd the mutual Promise of true Love
And Friendship lasting. Soon to Court the Son
Of Crispin hied, a City Beau! to find
87
(Who wou'd have thought it?) of imperious Joan!
But Wives, sometimes, are christianly dispos'd!
Can Language tell the Cobler's vast Surprize,
Terrors, Distraction, when in Royal Robes
He found his Fellow? but divested soon
Of Majesty and State, to Cellar rich,
Th' indulgent Prince the welcom Fav'rite led,
And drank him up to Sov'reignty of Soul!
Fit Partner and Companion then confest!
Mirth was renew'd, and Friendship faster bound.
Nor stop'd Great Harry, till fair forty Marks,
Huge Pension then! were settled on the Man
Of gentle Craft. Example take, ye Kings;
And wisely chuse the Fav'rites of your Grace.
Merit, like Air, is unconfin'd and free,
But most in Stalls and humble Huts abounds.
88
And, in his Garden, old Laertes seek
Sweet Consolation for his absent Son,
Ulysses sage; nor yet disdain'd to plow
And dung his Ground with his imperial Hand?
This weighing well, I, more than mortal Bard,
Have made a Friend of Killingsworth, renown'd!
Ne'er may the Union of our Hearts be broke.
Vain Fear! while Iver nappy Ale affords;
Or various Wines Killmorey's Cellar stores.
Hadst thou, O Philips, Bard prodigious! found
A Taylor, dextrous as my Cobler, ne'er
Had Verse of thine the horrid Chasm confess'd
Of Galligaskins; at which Winds alternate
With chilling Blasts, tumultuous enter'd in.
Oft, as I read thy live Description, Tears
My Cheeks bedew; and oft, I curse the Times,
And Taste of Men, who suffer'd Thee to sing
Thy Woes so rueful! Had I flourish'd then,
My Coat, my Shirt, had freely gone to Pawn,
To purchase Galligaskins sound for Thee.
Long, very long, may I th' Affliction scape!
And Cash or Credit find t'appear Abroad,
Decent in Dress! ne'er may my leathern Bag,
Or silken Purse, a splendid Shilling want.
Twice ten fair Pieces, Residue of Cash
By generous Stair, on Fav'rite Bard bestow'd,
Enrich'd my Fob, and cheer'd the grateful Muse,
When whilom Killingsworth, with Art ingenious,
Doctor'd my Shoe—Homer had ne'er so much!
A Sterling Pound how rare the Poet's Boast,
In Iron Age; when Patrons rise as rare,
As Peaches, in rough Hyperborean Climes,
And ope their Coffers bounteous to the Muse,
As Priests to Parish Poor distribute Alms;
Or Presbytry fair Testimonials gives
To free-born Genius, and Wit unslav'd.
Tremendous Zeal of Kirk-men, blindly urg'd
Against Heav'n's Gift, and Providence Supreme!
Such I experienc'd, in my youthful Days,
Where Love of Poesy was deem'd a Crime,
By blind Prosaick Leaders of the Blind;
Source of the Sorrows I have felt, or feel,
In Life! Thee Ballandine, how shall I thank
For Cash, or Credit, Liberty, or Breath?
In future Ages thou shalt live in Song,
Tartuf the Second:—This thy Merits claim,
And I th' Arrears to Merit due will pay.
A Taylor, dextrous as my Cobler, ne'er
Had Verse of thine the horrid Chasm confess'd
Of Galligaskins; at which Winds alternate
With chilling Blasts, tumultuous enter'd in.
Oft, as I read thy live Description, Tears
89
And Taste of Men, who suffer'd Thee to sing
Thy Woes so rueful! Had I flourish'd then,
My Coat, my Shirt, had freely gone to Pawn,
To purchase Galligaskins sound for Thee.
Long, very long, may I th' Affliction scape!
And Cash or Credit find t'appear Abroad,
Decent in Dress! ne'er may my leathern Bag,
Or silken Purse, a splendid Shilling want.
Twice ten fair Pieces, Residue of Cash
By generous Stair, on Fav'rite Bard bestow'd,
Enrich'd my Fob, and cheer'd the grateful Muse,
When whilom Killingsworth, with Art ingenious,
Doctor'd my Shoe—Homer had ne'er so much!
A Sterling Pound how rare the Poet's Boast,
In Iron Age; when Patrons rise as rare,
As Peaches, in rough Hyperborean Climes,
90
As Priests to Parish Poor distribute Alms;
Or Presbytry fair Testimonials gives
To free-born Genius, and Wit unslav'd.
Tremendous Zeal of Kirk-men, blindly urg'd
Against Heav'n's Gift, and Providence Supreme!
Such I experienc'd, in my youthful Days,
Where Love of Poesy was deem'd a Crime,
By blind Prosaick Leaders of the Blind;
Source of the Sorrows I have felt, or feel,
In Life! Thee Ballandine, how shall I thank
For Cash, or Credit, Liberty, or Breath?
In future Ages thou shalt live in Song,
Tartuf the Second:—This thy Merits claim,
And I th' Arrears to Merit due will pay.
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But stop, my Muse, thy Course digressive here,
Nor Killingsworth with Ballandine profane,
By Episode, unwary, hurried far.
Joyous, I turn to hail the Cobler's Art,
And, in my Verse, emblaze his proper Acts,
Momentuous! May I ne'er debase the Theme!
O cou'd my Muse pursue th' Example bright!
As well-beat Leather, strong shou'd be my Sense,
And sharp, as Awls, my Wit. His hempen Threads
No surer stitch the Chasms of broken Soles,
Than my Connexion, nervous, firm my Strains,
And fit my Labours for eternal Use.
But I, alas! at Distance far, unskill'd,
Copy the Pattern of great Killingsworth,
Unrivall'd Cobler! what Physician fam'd,
Arbuthnot, Mead, or Sloan, with like Success,
Can cure the human Body, spent with Toil,
Or worn with Age? Well were it for the Town,
Could'st thou, St. Andre, of upstarted Fame!
Or thou, O Douglas, dislocated Bones
Rejoin, secure; or broken Limbs restore
To pristine Soundness; as ingenious He,
Sudden and cheap, renews decrepit Shoes,
Or stops an Orifice in leathern Boots!
Thou R---n, vers'd in Ruptures by Receipt,
And deem'd a Doctor for thy want of Skill,
Why rid'st thou in gilt Chariot, while a-Foot
Great Killingsworth, in Art and Virtue grey,
Is doom'd, alas! to trudge it all in Rags?
Well for the Church, that Wake and Hoadley, fam'd,
By his Example, and unerring Method,
Cou'd cure the wounded Consciences of Men,
And heal the Souls of Sinners; direful Case!
But, O how bless'd, how happy were the Realm,
Did Statesmen learn of Killingsworth to act,
Preserve the Peace, and hoard no ill-got Wealth!
But George's Reign, like old Saturnian Times,
Screens no malignant Mind, no Practice vile.
Nor Killingsworth with Ballandine profane,
By Episode, unwary, hurried far.
Joyous, I turn to hail the Cobler's Art,
And, in my Verse, emblaze his proper Acts,
Momentuous! May I ne'er debase the Theme!
O cou'd my Muse pursue th' Example bright!
As well-beat Leather, strong shou'd be my Sense,
And sharp, as Awls, my Wit. His hempen Threads
No surer stitch the Chasms of broken Soles,
Than my Connexion, nervous, firm my Strains,
And fit my Labours for eternal Use.
But I, alas! at Distance far, unskill'd,
Copy the Pattern of great Killingsworth,
Unrivall'd Cobler! what Physician fam'd,
Arbuthnot, Mead, or Sloan, with like Success,
92
Or worn with Age? Well were it for the Town,
Could'st thou, St. Andre, of upstarted Fame!
Or thou, O Douglas, dislocated Bones
Rejoin, secure; or broken Limbs restore
To pristine Soundness; as ingenious He,
Sudden and cheap, renews decrepit Shoes,
Or stops an Orifice in leathern Boots!
Thou R---n, vers'd in Ruptures by Receipt,
And deem'd a Doctor for thy want of Skill,
Why rid'st thou in gilt Chariot, while a-Foot
Great Killingsworth, in Art and Virtue grey,
Is doom'd, alas! to trudge it all in Rags?
Well for the Church, that Wake and Hoadley, fam'd,
By his Example, and unerring Method,
Cou'd cure the wounded Consciences of Men,
And heal the Souls of Sinners; direful Case!
93
Did Statesmen learn of Killingsworth to act,
Preserve the Peace, and hoard no ill-got Wealth!
But George's Reign, like old Saturnian Times,
Screens no malignant Mind, no Practice vile.
Thee, Killingsworth, no Subtlety perverts,
No Vanity, no Pride inflames. Thy Stall,
Sweet Seat! is void of Envy, Cares, and Strife.
There sitt'st Thou, arm'd with Hammer, Lench, and Awl,
Within pacifick Walls enthron'd, and pleas'd:
So, in his Tub, Diogenes was wont
To scorn the World, and feast on calm Content.
O how unlike was he, of Ludgate-Hill!
Whose Pride, elate, by Bickerstaff expos'd,
Is Satire pointed at all Ranks of Men,
Fantastick, and high-fum'd. This Artist, vain,
Great Lover of Respect, (aloof from him,
Fateful, alas! with-held,) the Figure of a Beau,
In Window plac'd; vile Sycophant of Wood,
Bending profound to pay unmeant Respect.
Under left Arm a Hat, and, in right Hand
Of Arm extended, was some Wax, or Thread,
Or Candle held, as most the Master's Use
Avail'd. O strange Idolatry inverted!
In which the Image to the Man did Homage!
But Earth abounds with his upheav'd Compeers.
All meditate Dominion, and wou'd rule
O'er Birds, or Beasts, or their own Kind, tyrannick.
Each Mortal from Inferiors looks for Praise,
Observance, or Submission, to Desert
Imagin'd due; for few in Question call
Their proper Merit, and superior Right
To Rev'rence; nor, but scantling, cease Emprize
Enormous, proud Ambition's End to reach.
Curs'd Affectation of despotick Sway!
Of human Nature, Reason, Sense, the Bane,
Reproach, Disgrace! on Folly founded still!
By Puffs of Flatt'ry oft to Madness blown!
But most absurd in Minds of low Degree,
Heav'n-doom'd to Darkness, and Oblivion dire.
Such this Invention, upon Ludgate-Hill,
Of Cobler, erst anonymous. In Cits
Of humblest Rank, and weakest Brain, Conceit
Reigns lawless, insolent; and through all Steps
Of Greatness, may be trac'd infuriate. But
Exempt from this Disease, wide spreading, stands
Wise Killingsworth: Nor human Nature he,
Nor gentle Craft disfigures: Ever calm,
Modest and Meek, his peerless Mind controlls
Secret Resentment, Seeds of Self-Esteem,
And Passions, that make Havock of the Brain.
Let Young and Old, the Rich and Poor observe
The Pattern rare; so shall they 'scape Contempt
Or Bedlam, natural Consequence of Pride,
Dire Prologue to a World of Woes, Hell-bred.
No Vanity, no Pride inflames. Thy Stall,
Sweet Seat! is void of Envy, Cares, and Strife.
There sitt'st Thou, arm'd with Hammer, Lench, and Awl,
Within pacifick Walls enthron'd, and pleas'd:
So, in his Tub, Diogenes was wont
To scorn the World, and feast on calm Content.
O how unlike was he, of Ludgate-Hill!
Whose Pride, elate, by Bickerstaff expos'd,
Is Satire pointed at all Ranks of Men,
94
Great Lover of Respect, (aloof from him,
Fateful, alas! with-held,) the Figure of a Beau,
In Window plac'd; vile Sycophant of Wood,
Bending profound to pay unmeant Respect.
Under left Arm a Hat, and, in right Hand
Of Arm extended, was some Wax, or Thread,
Or Candle held, as most the Master's Use
Avail'd. O strange Idolatry inverted!
In which the Image to the Man did Homage!
But Earth abounds with his upheav'd Compeers.
All meditate Dominion, and wou'd rule
O'er Birds, or Beasts, or their own Kind, tyrannick.
Each Mortal from Inferiors looks for Praise,
Observance, or Submission, to Desert
Imagin'd due; for few in Question call
Their proper Merit, and superior Right
95
Enormous, proud Ambition's End to reach.
Curs'd Affectation of despotick Sway!
Of human Nature, Reason, Sense, the Bane,
Reproach, Disgrace! on Folly founded still!
By Puffs of Flatt'ry oft to Madness blown!
But most absurd in Minds of low Degree,
Heav'n-doom'd to Darkness, and Oblivion dire.
Such this Invention, upon Ludgate-Hill,
Of Cobler, erst anonymous. In Cits
Of humblest Rank, and weakest Brain, Conceit
Reigns lawless, insolent; and through all Steps
Of Greatness, may be trac'd infuriate. But
Exempt from this Disease, wide spreading, stands
Wise Killingsworth: Nor human Nature he,
Nor gentle Craft disfigures: Ever calm,
Modest and Meek, his peerless Mind controlls
96
And Passions, that make Havock of the Brain.
Let Young and Old, the Rich and Poor observe
The Pattern rare; so shall they 'scape Contempt
Or Bedlam, natural Consequence of Pride,
Dire Prologue to a World of Woes, Hell-bred.
Why, O my Stars, was I not bred a Cobler?
A Trade unsordid! Tricking Mortals, learn
To cobble Shoes, and let the World grow good.
Ye Jobbers, Jews, and Brokers, O be taught
To deal upright, as Killingsworth directs
By Pattern honest. Let Attorneys quit
Their Pettifogging Arts, and leave Mankind
To follow Nature, Equity's great Friend.
Justice, and Law, and Peace, are best maintain'd
By Reason plain and pure. These, ever sound,
No Cobling need; or but few Sages wise
In good Repair to keep the Commonweal.
O when will Men improve the Trade of Truth,
Know their own Strength, and use their Talents right!
Discern, ye Scriblers, O discern your Skill,
Your proper Genius, and betimes apply
Your Talents, studious, to Creation's End.
For me, I'd rather serve a Swain for Hire,
And purchase Bread according to the Curse
Of Adam, fall'n from Grace, than plague Mankind
With senseless Metre; or ev'n shine renown'd
In noble Verse, for all Things else unfit,
In all Things else unskill'd. Condition dire!
So great Achilles, in the Elysian Scenes,
Preferr'd a Life of Abstinence and Toil,
Before Dominion o'er unbody'd Shades.
A Trade unsordid! Tricking Mortals, learn
To cobble Shoes, and let the World grow good.
Ye Jobbers, Jews, and Brokers, O be taught
To deal upright, as Killingsworth directs
By Pattern honest. Let Attorneys quit
Their Pettifogging Arts, and leave Mankind
To follow Nature, Equity's great Friend.
Justice, and Law, and Peace, are best maintain'd
By Reason plain and pure. These, ever sound,
97
In good Repair to keep the Commonweal.
O when will Men improve the Trade of Truth,
Know their own Strength, and use their Talents right!
Discern, ye Scriblers, O discern your Skill,
Your proper Genius, and betimes apply
Your Talents, studious, to Creation's End.
For me, I'd rather serve a Swain for Hire,
And purchase Bread according to the Curse
Of Adam, fall'n from Grace, than plague Mankind
With senseless Metre; or ev'n shine renown'd
In noble Verse, for all Things else unfit,
In all Things else unskill'd. Condition dire!
So great Achilles, in the Elysian Scenes,
Preferr'd a Life of Abstinence and Toil,
Before Dominion o'er unbody'd Shades.
98
O Happiness of humble State and Rank!
Sweet Industry, the Child of sacred Virtue!
How bless'd is Life, sequester'd from the Town,
Where one eternal Round of Hurry reigns.
In humble Greatness Killingsworth grows old,
Happy, and useful to his Neighb'ring Swains,
A Loyal Subject, and a Churchman true!
Yet both by Chance—for he's above Design:
Assur'd that bold Enquiry might disturb
His Halcyon Ease, and Primitive Repose.
Whatever Mischief happens on the Earth,
In his Asylum, 'midst his Tools invelopt,
Safe, he remains, and, unconcern'd, is blest!
So while rough Thunder rends the dark'ning Clouds,
And dreadful Bolts their furious Forces waste
On tow'ring Hills, the humble Plain, secure,
Mocks the loud Roar, and Heav'n's Artillery 'scapes.
Sweet Industry, the Child of sacred Virtue!
How bless'd is Life, sequester'd from the Town,
Where one eternal Round of Hurry reigns.
In humble Greatness Killingsworth grows old,
Happy, and useful to his Neighb'ring Swains,
A Loyal Subject, and a Churchman true!
Yet both by Chance—for he's above Design:
Assur'd that bold Enquiry might disturb
His Halcyon Ease, and Primitive Repose.
Whatever Mischief happens on the Earth,
In his Asylum, 'midst his Tools invelopt,
Safe, he remains, and, unconcern'd, is blest!
So while rough Thunder rends the dark'ning Clouds,
And dreadful Bolts their furious Forces waste
On tow'ring Hills, the humble Plain, secure,
Mocks the loud Roar, and Heav'n's Artillery 'scapes.
99
Were I to have my Choice (but ah! my Stars
Look with ill Aspect, and deny my Wish,)
Near Iver's Stream, of Waters most Supreme!
A Residence I'd chuse: best Boon of Heav'n!
Such Cobler's-Hall delectable appears,
Rare Product of ingenious Skill and Toil
Of Killingsworth, Sire to the boasted Man,
Whom fain my Muse wou'd imitate and praise.
Happy Killmorey, who, in Cobler's-Hall,
Enjoyest Elysium. But that Thou dwell'st there,
I'd covet that Abode, of rural Seats
Pre-eminent. Yet Me, an humble Bard,
An humbler House may please. A narrow Room
May serve my Rank: But let me have it neat,
And clean, ye Gods; tho' but one Chair, or Stool,
Stand by th' Table—and let Sheets be savoury,
And Landlady not sluttish, nor severe,
As whilom G---r, Parsons's Relict, prov'd
To R---t and B---n, who fair Iver chose
For Residence. Good Taste! to fix on Iver;
But too hard Fate, to meet ill Usage there!
Yet cheer, fair Ladies, and recal to Mind,
How, ev'n in Seats celestial, Discord rose
Thro' Pride of Lucifer, of Rebels chief,
Whom Pow'r Almighty, (so great Milton sings)
Hurl'd headlong, flaming, from the Ethereal Sky
With hideous Ruin and Combustion, down
To bottomless Perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine Chains, and penal Fire.
Look with ill Aspect, and deny my Wish,)
Near Iver's Stream, of Waters most Supreme!
A Residence I'd chuse: best Boon of Heav'n!
Such Cobler's-Hall delectable appears,
Rare Product of ingenious Skill and Toil
Of Killingsworth, Sire to the boasted Man,
Whom fain my Muse wou'd imitate and praise.
Happy Killmorey, who, in Cobler's-Hall,
Enjoyest Elysium. But that Thou dwell'st there,
I'd covet that Abode, of rural Seats
Pre-eminent. Yet Me, an humble Bard,
An humbler House may please. A narrow Room
May serve my Rank: But let me have it neat,
And clean, ye Gods; tho' but one Chair, or Stool,
Stand by th' Table—and let Sheets be savoury,
100
As whilom G---r, Parsons's Relict, prov'd
To R---t and B---n, who fair Iver chose
For Residence. Good Taste! to fix on Iver;
But too hard Fate, to meet ill Usage there!
Yet cheer, fair Ladies, and recal to Mind,
How, ev'n in Seats celestial, Discord rose
Thro' Pride of Lucifer, of Rebels chief,
Whom Pow'r Almighty, (so great Milton sings)
Hurl'd headlong, flaming, from the Ethereal Sky
With hideous Ruin and Combustion, down
To bottomless Perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine Chains, and penal Fire.
Save us, good Heav'n, from such a dire Extreme,
Of Crime and Vengeance—Fate of Souls abandon'd
Of Grace! But, shun, my Muse, the dismal Thought,
Nor with horrifick Images confound
Iver, the Scene of Pleasure and of Love,
My Residence desir'd. There lodg'd, I'd pass
My flying Years, from Noise and Hurry free,
O'er all my Passions watchful, and supreme!
As from the snowy Tops of Alpine Hills,
I'd view the spacious Sea of human Woes,
Pitying and pleas'd. Oh sacred heav'nly Life,
Undash'd with Cares, or Spleen; and wrapt secure
In ornamental Virtues, Garment rare!
Thus shou'd my Years, in grateful Circle, rowl;
And fair shou'd be my Character and Fame,
Fair as the new-fall'n Snow, or whiter Skin
Of Curate's Daughter, Jane, an Iver Toast!
Tho' to adorn my Head, no Bays arise,
The peaceful Olive shou'd content my Mind.
Instead of marble Pillars, I'd survey
Tall Pyramids of Cypress Ever-green;
And, in the Place of arch'd and gilded Roofs,
Contemplate Heaven's great Canopy of State.
Forgetful, Thornhill, of thy Light and Shade,
Thy blended Colours, artfully dispos'd,
My Eyes wou'd feast on variegated Scenes,
And Prospects, form'd by Nature for Delight;
Palms, Myrtle-Groves, green Valleys, Mountains, Hills,
And bubbling Streams, as Crystal clear, and cold
As Thracian Ice, thro' flow'ry Meads, dispers'd,
Should more than make amends for want of Art,
On Canvas drawn by thy ingenious Hand.
Content with Little, and retir'd from Crowds,
My Stock of Wit I would not misapply,
To flatter Fools, or wicked Men in Pow'r.
Domestick Troubles too I'd wisely shun,
And rather fly, like J---n, Bard of Beef!
To an aërial Citadel, well-pleas'd,
Than, in first Floor of sumptuous Shew, reside,
With Dame contentious. So, in holy Writ,
Avers the Wisdom of the wisest Man,
Hight Solomon, of Israel erst the King.
His Song of Songs I'd oft repeat, enraptur'd:
And oft, O C---ll, thy Circassian read,
Of Verse politest It, of Priests thy self!
Oft wou'd I drown dull Thought in homely Ale
Of Country Vicar. Oft with honest Swains,
On quaint Expressions and Conundrums keen,
I'd whiff Tobacco, grateful Herb: yet ne'er
Wou'd I lose Time with Master, whom Estate
And want of Wit, make Coxcomb; Booby bred!
He with strong Beer and Ale the Country rules,
By long hereditary Right of Folly.
I love the Simple, Jovial Swains,—but tremble
At Sight of Fools. So, with her Hairs erect,
And chilly Sweat, Ophelia, harmless Soul!
Beholds a Rat, or Mouse, a-cross the Floor
Scud fleet, or sculk in Closet dark perdue.
Me no deep Veneration does inspire
For eldest Sons of Squires, with Coats broad-lac'd,
That smell like Civit Cats. Come not, my Soul,
Into their Habitation; nor again
Ride out by Five, and pass half Days fatigu'd,
With T---, like Nimrod, mighty Huntsman, there.
Why should my Pleasure issue in Fatigue?
Such prov'd the Sport, when whilom with thy Hounds
And Thee, I beat the neighbouring Thickets round
Fair Iver many a Mile, prodigious Task!
And all in vain,—but that I found a Crab,
Apple delicious to a thirsty Palate!
In Fields of Lady Montague yclip'd.
So, to a Traveller o'er Numidian Wastes,
A Stream proves Luxury! exhausted quite,
And tir'd, he takes the Fortune of the Chase,
Whether in quest of Prey, the Desart wide
He traverses, or seeks some distant Land.
Of Crime and Vengeance—Fate of Souls abandon'd
Of Grace! But, shun, my Muse, the dismal Thought,
101
Iver, the Scene of Pleasure and of Love,
My Residence desir'd. There lodg'd, I'd pass
My flying Years, from Noise and Hurry free,
O'er all my Passions watchful, and supreme!
As from the snowy Tops of Alpine Hills,
I'd view the spacious Sea of human Woes,
Pitying and pleas'd. Oh sacred heav'nly Life,
Undash'd with Cares, or Spleen; and wrapt secure
In ornamental Virtues, Garment rare!
Thus shou'd my Years, in grateful Circle, rowl;
And fair shou'd be my Character and Fame,
Fair as the new-fall'n Snow, or whiter Skin
Of Curate's Daughter, Jane, an Iver Toast!
Tho' to adorn my Head, no Bays arise,
The peaceful Olive shou'd content my Mind.
Instead of marble Pillars, I'd survey
102
And, in the Place of arch'd and gilded Roofs,
Contemplate Heaven's great Canopy of State.
Forgetful, Thornhill, of thy Light and Shade,
Thy blended Colours, artfully dispos'd,
My Eyes wou'd feast on variegated Scenes,
And Prospects, form'd by Nature for Delight;
Palms, Myrtle-Groves, green Valleys, Mountains, Hills,
And bubbling Streams, as Crystal clear, and cold
As Thracian Ice, thro' flow'ry Meads, dispers'd,
Should more than make amends for want of Art,
On Canvas drawn by thy ingenious Hand.
Content with Little, and retir'd from Crowds,
My Stock of Wit I would not misapply,
To flatter Fools, or wicked Men in Pow'r.
Domestick Troubles too I'd wisely shun,
And rather fly, like J---n, Bard of Beef!
103
Than, in first Floor of sumptuous Shew, reside,
With Dame contentious. So, in holy Writ,
Avers the Wisdom of the wisest Man,
Hight Solomon, of Israel erst the King.
His Song of Songs I'd oft repeat, enraptur'd:
And oft, O C---ll, thy Circassian read,
Of Verse politest It, of Priests thy self!
Oft wou'd I drown dull Thought in homely Ale
Of Country Vicar. Oft with honest Swains,
On quaint Expressions and Conundrums keen,
I'd whiff Tobacco, grateful Herb: yet ne'er
Wou'd I lose Time with Master, whom Estate
And want of Wit, make Coxcomb; Booby bred!
He with strong Beer and Ale the Country rules,
By long hereditary Right of Folly.
I love the Simple, Jovial Swains,—but tremble
104
And chilly Sweat, Ophelia, harmless Soul!
Beholds a Rat, or Mouse, a-cross the Floor
Scud fleet, or sculk in Closet dark perdue.
Me no deep Veneration does inspire
For eldest Sons of Squires, with Coats broad-lac'd,
That smell like Civit Cats. Come not, my Soul,
Into their Habitation; nor again
Ride out by Five, and pass half Days fatigu'd,
With T---, like Nimrod, mighty Huntsman, there.
Why should my Pleasure issue in Fatigue?
Such prov'd the Sport, when whilom with thy Hounds
And Thee, I beat the neighbouring Thickets round
Fair Iver many a Mile, prodigious Task!
And all in vain,—but that I found a Crab,
Apple delicious to a thirsty Palate!
In Fields of Lady Montague yclip'd.
105
A Stream proves Luxury! exhausted quite,
And tir'd, he takes the Fortune of the Chase,
Whether in quest of Prey, the Desart wide
He traverses, or seeks some distant Land.
Me long and tedious Courses never please:
Rather, for Recreation, let me walk
And exercise my Limbs! and oft, O sweet!
Angle the River! oft, o'er Birds unweeting,
Spread the delusive Net. Yet save me, Heaven,
From each Desire voluptuous and cruel;
By Massacre of thy defenceless Creatures,
To feed my Maw, and make my self the Grave
Of Beasts, and Birds, and Fish, Creation's Pride.
For Sport, I'd catch 'em—but to let 'em 'scape
Unhurt! the short-liv'd Sorrow wou'd enhance
The joyous Boon of Liberty aerial.
Rather, for Recreation, let me walk
And exercise my Limbs! and oft, O sweet!
Angle the River! oft, o'er Birds unweeting,
Spread the delusive Net. Yet save me, Heaven,
From each Desire voluptuous and cruel;
By Massacre of thy defenceless Creatures,
To feed my Maw, and make my self the Grave
Of Beasts, and Birds, and Fish, Creation's Pride.
For Sport, I'd catch 'em—but to let 'em 'scape
Unhurt! the short-liv'd Sorrow wou'd enhance
The joyous Boon of Liberty aerial.
106
Thrice wretched Men, from whom wise Heav'n conceals
The Knowledge of this great, important, Truth,
That little with Contentment is best Cheer,
And half a large Estate excells the Whole!
Unhappy, who cou'd ne'er perceive the Sweets,
The Luxury of wholsome Roots and Herbs!
But blest beyond Expression They, who crown'd
With Plenty, chuse Retirement from the Crowd,
And please themselves with what the Country yields.
How greatly Horace, at his Sabin Seat,
Or fair Tiburtin Manor blest, declin'd
The Pride and Cares of State, tho' Cæsar's Self
Invited, as a Friend! Nor was he blam'd.
Wise Men have idle Hours t'unbend their Minds,
Turmoil'd with Cares and Studies, Flesh-corroding.
From Books and Men, St. Evremond and Steele,
Lov'd Names and everlasting! oft repair'd
To fam'd Duck-Island, Government desir'd,
And with the feath'ry Habitants convers'd,
Hens, Ducks, and Geese, by crumbled Bread made social,
And fatned for the Royal Board; as erst
(So Romish Legends tell, and Dupes believe)
With Gospel Food the Father fed the Fish
Esurient, and confirm'd them in the Faith;
Fit Dishes then for Table of the Saints!
If Saints, Heav'n shrin'd, in Delicates delight,
Sav'ry to Priests, and Cardinals, and Popes,
All Maw-devoted, tho' in Spirit pure!
Heroes and Kings, Philosophers and Bards,
Great Souls! sometimes regale themselves, unbent,
With low Diversions, vulgarly yclip'd
Dishes of Romps. Agesilaus, erst
On Hobby-Horse astride, with Children dear,
Was by th' Ambassadors of Sparta found,
Surpriz'd; but soon his Dignity resum'd.
Transition strange, but nat'ral to the Great!
Scipio and Lælius, Noble, Brave, Polite,
Sought Moments vacant; and, with low Disport,
Varied Retirement, and their Friendship crown'd:
Oft on the Sea-shore would they gather Shells,
Amusive; and their Shape and Colour view;
As Woodward, curious Modern! or Sir Hans,
The unregarded Works of Nature eyes,
Enamour'd; and by Trifling grows a Sage!
Trifling agreeable, by Tully prais'd,
Stern Cato's self descended oft to Glee,
Soul-cheering; and, incellar'd with a Knot
Of honest Friends, wou'd put the Bottle round
Frank and facetious. Rome's imperial Lord,
Augustus hight, with Moorish Boys vouchsaf'd
To play at Marbles, Rival Game of Taw,
By Moderns us'd! sweet Relaxation That
From Government of all the World below.
But not among Amusements of the Great
Be nam'd Domitian's Exercise with Flies,
Ridiculous, horrifick. Far from Praise
Of hallow'd Muse be Princes and their Crimes,
To Virtue, Innocence, and Truth estrang'd,
Howe'er, by Parasites deceitful, hail'd.
Ev'n in their Gambols graceful are the Wise;
Their Condescensions elegant and lovely!
How amiable Walpole with his Friends,
His old, well-try'd, and honest Friends, retir'd
From publick State and Care! whether a Pot
Of sober Porter, healthful English Drink,
Or Punch more potent, he vouchsafe to taste,
Social, good-humour'd; or a Hunting rides,
Easy and free, as rural Squire, unvers'd
In Policy and Government Sublime.
'Twould do one Good to see how I, ev'n I,
Bred on Parnassus' Summit, condescend,
In Stall of Killingsworth, to low Chit-chat,
And, greatly humble, finger Threads and Wax,
And Awl, like one in Arts of cobling skill'd!
We God-like Minds disdain not abject State,
By Virtue bless'd; and are the more rever'd,
The less tremendous we appear to Mortals.
The Knowledge of this great, important, Truth,
That little with Contentment is best Cheer,
And half a large Estate excells the Whole!
Unhappy, who cou'd ne'er perceive the Sweets,
The Luxury of wholsome Roots and Herbs!
But blest beyond Expression They, who crown'd
With Plenty, chuse Retirement from the Crowd,
And please themselves with what the Country yields.
How greatly Horace, at his Sabin Seat,
Or fair Tiburtin Manor blest, declin'd
The Pride and Cares of State, tho' Cæsar's Self
Invited, as a Friend! Nor was he blam'd.
Wise Men have idle Hours t'unbend their Minds,
Turmoil'd with Cares and Studies, Flesh-corroding.
From Books and Men, St. Evremond and Steele,
107
To fam'd Duck-Island, Government desir'd,
And with the feath'ry Habitants convers'd,
Hens, Ducks, and Geese, by crumbled Bread made social,
And fatned for the Royal Board; as erst
(So Romish Legends tell, and Dupes believe)
With Gospel Food the Father fed the Fish
Esurient, and confirm'd them in the Faith;
Fit Dishes then for Table of the Saints!
If Saints, Heav'n shrin'd, in Delicates delight,
Sav'ry to Priests, and Cardinals, and Popes,
All Maw-devoted, tho' in Spirit pure!
Heroes and Kings, Philosophers and Bards,
Great Souls! sometimes regale themselves, unbent,
108
Dishes of Romps. Agesilaus, erst
On Hobby-Horse astride, with Children dear,
Was by th' Ambassadors of Sparta found,
Surpriz'd; but soon his Dignity resum'd.
Transition strange, but nat'ral to the Great!
Scipio and Lælius, Noble, Brave, Polite,
Sought Moments vacant; and, with low Disport,
Varied Retirement, and their Friendship crown'd:
Oft on the Sea-shore would they gather Shells,
Amusive; and their Shape and Colour view;
As Woodward, curious Modern! or Sir Hans,
The unregarded Works of Nature eyes,
Enamour'd; and by Trifling grows a Sage!
Trifling agreeable, by Tully prais'd,
Stern Cato's self descended oft to Glee,
Soul-cheering; and, incellar'd with a Knot
109
Frank and facetious. Rome's imperial Lord,
Augustus hight, with Moorish Boys vouchsaf'd
To play at Marbles, Rival Game of Taw,
By Moderns us'd! sweet Relaxation That
From Government of all the World below.
But not among Amusements of the Great
Be nam'd Domitian's Exercise with Flies,
Ridiculous, horrifick. Far from Praise
Of hallow'd Muse be Princes and their Crimes,
To Virtue, Innocence, and Truth estrang'd,
Howe'er, by Parasites deceitful, hail'd.
Ev'n in their Gambols graceful are the Wise;
Their Condescensions elegant and lovely!
How amiable Walpole with his Friends,
His old, well-try'd, and honest Friends, retir'd
From publick State and Care! whether a Pot
110
Or Punch more potent, he vouchsafe to taste,
Social, good-humour'd; or a Hunting rides,
Easy and free, as rural Squire, unvers'd
In Policy and Government Sublime.
'Twould do one Good to see how I, ev'n I,
Bred on Parnassus' Summit, condescend,
In Stall of Killingsworth, to low Chit-chat,
And, greatly humble, finger Threads and Wax,
And Awl, like one in Arts of cobling skill'd!
We God-like Minds disdain not abject State,
By Virtue bless'd; and are the more rever'd,
The less tremendous we appear to Mortals.
Serv'd with clean Linnen, and with simple Fare,
I'd rise from Table, or from verdant Turf,
With Appetite to Study, or for Sport.
Variety, and new-found Dishes, I
Not covet: They bring on a noxious Train
Of foul Diseases on the human Frame;
And Bodies, so affected, clog the Mind,
Dire Influence! and urge untimely Death.
Rather I'd glut my Soul with Heav'nly Truths,
And Nature's Store, than pamper mortal Flesh.
But most in Conversation wou'd I joy
With Stuart, of Companions most refin'd!
Or thou, O Wright, an honest Lawyer! vers'd
In Reason's School, should'st entertain my Ear
With Sentiments of Freedom, British Boast;
And greedily thy Notions of the Priests,
In Craft accomplish'd, wou'd my Soul receive.
And, Oh! how charmful there, with antient Times,
Oft to converse! Thy Trumpet, Homer, now,
Now, Ovid's Lute, shou'd vary my Delight.
Thy Judgment Maro, and the Sterling Wit
Of Horace, favourite Bard! shou'd raise my Mind
To Rapture. And, when modern Names invite,
Buchanan, deathless Bard! shou'd first engage
My Reverence: Shakespeare, Spencer, Milton, next;
Nor Thee, harmonious Cowley, wou'd I slight,
Nor Dryden, thee: No better Strains I'd court,
Nor better cou'd I find. Sometimes my self,
By these inspir'd, wou'd string the gentle Lyre,
Perhaps awake the Trumpet, and sublime
My Strains, to Heav'n and to my Country due!
I'd rise from Table, or from verdant Turf,
With Appetite to Study, or for Sport.
111
Not covet: They bring on a noxious Train
Of foul Diseases on the human Frame;
And Bodies, so affected, clog the Mind,
Dire Influence! and urge untimely Death.
Rather I'd glut my Soul with Heav'nly Truths,
And Nature's Store, than pamper mortal Flesh.
But most in Conversation wou'd I joy
With Stuart, of Companions most refin'd!
Or thou, O Wright, an honest Lawyer! vers'd
In Reason's School, should'st entertain my Ear
With Sentiments of Freedom, British Boast;
And greedily thy Notions of the Priests,
In Craft accomplish'd, wou'd my Soul receive.
And, Oh! how charmful there, with antient Times,
Oft to converse! Thy Trumpet, Homer, now,
Now, Ovid's Lute, shou'd vary my Delight.
112
Of Horace, favourite Bard! shou'd raise my Mind
To Rapture. And, when modern Names invite,
Buchanan, deathless Bard! shou'd first engage
My Reverence: Shakespeare, Spencer, Milton, next;
Nor Thee, harmonious Cowley, wou'd I slight,
Nor Dryden, thee: No better Strains I'd court,
Nor better cou'd I find. Sometimes my self,
By these inspir'd, wou'd string the gentle Lyre,
Perhaps awake the Trumpet, and sublime
My Strains, to Heav'n and to my Country due!
But, when Civility or just Respect
Obliges me to visit honest Friends,
Or neighbouring Dwellers, on a pacing Nag,
Sober, I'd make a Tour to Windsor now,
And now to Uxbridge. Thy
calm Seat, O Booth,
Pride of the British Stage, I'd not pass by,
Tho' Dennis self, indignant, warn'd me thence.
Oft on the verdant Margin of the Stream,
That, circling flows, as Crystal clear, along
Th' exterior Bounds of thy Inclosures fair,
I'd walk transported! while thy Silver Tongue,
More tuneful than the gently gliding Rills,
Thro' list'ning Ears, shou'd strike my ravish'd Soul,
And charm it into Extasie! Nor wou'd
I pass thy Dwelling, Ol---, but that Rage
And Jealousy might seize thy manly Friend.
Me no base Thoughts possess: To shew Respect
Is all my Meaning. Shall a Bard not praise
The Beauty, Wit and Taste, he must admire?
Excellent Actress, follow Nature still,
Heedless of what the Cynick World can say.
So, when soft Venus conquer'd warlike Mars,
And, curling in his Arms, by Vulcan's Net,
Lay in dear Thraldom, every conscious God,
Who call'd it Shame, his happy Station wish'd,
And, in his Heart, pronounc'd it sweet Disgrace.
Obliges me to visit honest Friends,
Or neighbouring Dwellers, on a pacing Nag,
Sober, I'd make a Tour to Windsor now,
113
Pride of the British Stage, I'd not pass by,
Tho' Dennis self, indignant, warn'd me thence.
Oft on the verdant Margin of the Stream,
That, circling flows, as Crystal clear, along
Th' exterior Bounds of thy Inclosures fair,
I'd walk transported! while thy Silver Tongue,
More tuneful than the gently gliding Rills,
Thro' list'ning Ears, shou'd strike my ravish'd Soul,
And charm it into Extasie! Nor wou'd
I pass thy Dwelling, Ol---, but that Rage
And Jealousy might seize thy manly Friend.
Me no base Thoughts possess: To shew Respect
Is all my Meaning. Shall a Bard not praise
The Beauty, Wit and Taste, he must admire?
114
Heedless of what the Cynick World can say.
So, when soft Venus conquer'd warlike Mars,
And, curling in his Arms, by Vulcan's Net,
Lay in dear Thraldom, every conscious God,
Who call'd it Shame, his happy Station wish'd,
And, in his Heart, pronounc'd it sweet Disgrace.
Thus wou'd I live, prepar'd for all Events
Of Fortune, and for Change or Loss of Friends;
For all below is vain, as Shadows fleet.
And, when my merry Years and Days are gone,
(For Piety itself cannot withstand
Th' Approach of wrinkled Age, and certain Death,)
I'd keep at Home, sollicitous to drop
Like Autumn Fruit, well-mellow'd, to the Earth,
My kindred, and maternal Clay! at Peace
With Heav'n, my Conscience, and Mankind, at once.
Yet would I die before my Senses fail,
Ere I grow irksom to my self and Friends,
Without the Ceremony of a Priest,
Or Form of a Physician. Rather may
My Relatives invite to my Bed-Side
Sage Killingsworth, to witness how I leave
The World by him despis'd: Or let a Choir
Of skill'd Musicians, both for Voices fam'd,
And Instruments select, attune my Soul,
And on their Notes transport it to the Skies!
How fitted then, I'd mix among the Saints!
With Moses, David, Casimir, Carstairs,
Musicians, Poets, Priests, and Kings, enthron'd,
Hymning, extatick, to th' Eternal's Praise!
And, if the Pow'r Almighty and All-wise
Approve my Wish, I shall not wail the Loss
Of visual Orbs; tho', by thick Films suffus'd
And painful Weakness, much I dread the Fate
Of Milton, who, with darken'd Eyes, but Mind
Illumin'd bright, in Verse unchim'd, the Dictates
Of Heav'n proclaim'd to Men, prodigious Bard!
When under Turf or Stone my Corps is laid,
(Both equal to me then!) I shall not care,
Nor know, what Men say of my Works and me.
Words are but Wind, in Latin or in Greek.
Yet for the Satisfaction of the Few,
Who wish my Memory well, may what is said
Be good, tho' little: I'd have honest Fame,
However small! and let my noble Stair,
Argyle, or Walpole, Hamilton, Balfour,
Or Lauderdale, Kilmorey, or the King,
(For Poets are the great Concern of all!
And all to Mitchell Patrons are confess'd!)
My sacred Bones deposite in the Isle,
To Bards devoted; and a decent Tomb,
Near Philips, raise, with Epitaph deserv'd:
Or, if in Caledonian Climes I drop,
(For I not yet foresee my Place of Death)
At Ratho, mix'd with Kindred Clay, I'd rest
Beneath a Marble Stone, inscrib'd J. M.
To tell Posterity whose Dust lies there.
No richer Epitaph I court! what Profit
Cou'd studied Phrases bring my mouldring Part?
And, for my Soul, it then wou'd have no Leisure,
Howe'er dispos'd in Realms of Bliss or Woe,
To mind what's written, or what Men might say.
Of Fortune, and for Change or Loss of Friends;
For all below is vain, as Shadows fleet.
And, when my merry Years and Days are gone,
(For Piety itself cannot withstand
Th' Approach of wrinkled Age, and certain Death,)
I'd keep at Home, sollicitous to drop
Like Autumn Fruit, well-mellow'd, to the Earth,
My kindred, and maternal Clay! at Peace
115
Yet would I die before my Senses fail,
Ere I grow irksom to my self and Friends,
Without the Ceremony of a Priest,
Or Form of a Physician. Rather may
My Relatives invite to my Bed-Side
Sage Killingsworth, to witness how I leave
The World by him despis'd: Or let a Choir
Of skill'd Musicians, both for Voices fam'd,
And Instruments select, attune my Soul,
And on their Notes transport it to the Skies!
How fitted then, I'd mix among the Saints!
116
Musicians, Poets, Priests, and Kings, enthron'd,
Hymning, extatick, to th' Eternal's Praise!
And, if the Pow'r Almighty and All-wise
Approve my Wish, I shall not wail the Loss
Of visual Orbs; tho', by thick Films suffus'd
And painful Weakness, much I dread the Fate
Of Milton, who, with darken'd Eyes, but Mind
Illumin'd bright, in Verse unchim'd, the Dictates
Of Heav'n proclaim'd to Men, prodigious Bard!
When under Turf or Stone my Corps is laid,
(Both equal to me then!) I shall not care,
Nor know, what Men say of my Works and me.
Words are but Wind, in Latin or in Greek.
Yet for the Satisfaction of the Few,
Who wish my Memory well, may what is said
Be good, tho' little: I'd have honest Fame,
117
Argyle, or Walpole, Hamilton, Balfour,
Or Lauderdale, Kilmorey, or the King,
(For Poets are the great Concern of all!
And all to Mitchell Patrons are confess'd!)
My sacred Bones deposite in the Isle,
To Bards devoted; and a decent Tomb,
Near Philips, raise, with Epitaph deserv'd:
Or, if in Caledonian Climes I drop,
(For I not yet foresee my Place of Death)
At Ratho, mix'd with Kindred Clay, I'd rest
Beneath a Marble Stone, inscrib'd J. M.
To tell Posterity whose Dust lies there.
No richer Epitaph I court! what Profit
Cou'd studied Phrases bring my mouldring Part?
118
Howe'er dispos'd in Realms of Bliss or Woe,
To mind what's written, or what Men might say.
Thus, in continu'd Rhapsody, I've sung,
Philippian Verse, unknowing ev'ry Line
What next wou'd follow: Inspiration strange!
Thus holy Men, in early Christian Times,
Careless of a To-morrow, took no Thought
What then might happen, and were bless'd of Heav'n.
Philippian Verse, unknowing ev'ry Line
What next wou'd follow: Inspiration strange!
Thus holy Men, in early Christian Times,
Careless of a To-morrow, took no Thought
What then might happen, and were bless'd of Heav'n.
Mrs. Killingsworth was deliver'd of a young Cobler, the very Night after her Husband had mended the Poet's Shoe. Such was the Will of Fate!
The tutelar Saint and Patron of Coblers in Popish Countries. No doubt, the Man had been extremely devout in his Stall, and wrought Miracles with his Awl and Hempen Threads.
Pity his Name is not recorded in our Chronicles. The Curious may see the History at large in a little Treatise, entitled, The History of the King and the Cobler, adorn'd with Cuts.
The Presbytery of Edinburgh, where the Author some time studied to be a Parson, refused him their Testimony and Licence, because he had read and recommended Dramatic Poetry, and would not believe and pronounce the Stage to be in itself absolutely unlawful, and an Abomination in the Eyes of the Lord.
See the Sine-Cure: A Poetical Petition to the Right Honourable Robert Walpole, Esq; for the Government of Duck-Island in St. James's Park.
It is storied by Popish Writers, that when Men refused to hear and believe his Doctrine, the great St. Anthony of Padua preach'd to a Congregation of Fishes, who greedily devour'd the Gospel, and were miraculously converted to the Faith. See Addison's Travels.
See the Ode on the Power of Musick, (first publish'd Anno Dom. 1710.) In which are these Lines;
------ And when I die,For Love I bore to Harmony,
May round my Bed a Sacred Choir
Of skill'd Musicians sweep the Lyre;
That, dying with the gentle Sounds,
My Soul, well-tun'd, may rise,
And break o'er all the common Bounds
Of Minds, that grovel here below the Skies.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |