The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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To my Lord of Abingdon at his Country House.
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
To my Lord of Abingdon at his Country House.
Happy the Man that from the Town retires,
And with it quits all vain and loose Desires;
That, born for Peace, the Country's soft Repose
Does early love, and but with Life will lose!
This Man, my Lord, like You his Hours does spend,
Such You began, and such You'll surely end:
Peace You enjoy, and Peace around You give,
Such is Your Life, and such the Shepherds live.
Prudence your Mind, and Plenty fills your Board,
And ev'ry Day does equal Stores afford.
Thus Circulating Pleasures round You move,
All Sports of River, Mountain, Field and Grove;
O Pleasure but to be excell'd above!
And with it quits all vain and loose Desires;
That, born for Peace, the Country's soft Repose
Does early love, and but with Life will lose!
This Man, my Lord, like You his Hours does spend,
Such You began, and such You'll surely end:
Peace You enjoy, and Peace around You give,
Such is Your Life, and such the Shepherds live.
Prudence your Mind, and Plenty fills your Board,
And ev'ry Day does equal Stores afford.
Thus Circulating Pleasures round You move,
All Sports of River, Mountain, Field and Grove;
O Pleasure but to be excell'd above!
How blest am I, unworthily your Care,
Call'd from the Town and plac'd in Safety here,
Free from the Ills that did surround me there:
The Flatte'rers Smiles, and the false Friends Embrace,
(Ah why are Minds not written on the Face!)
From Tradesmen's Cheats, and Blockhead's Doggrel Rhimes,
Which now are grown the Grievance of the Times:
To this we'll add what more our Peace does wrong,
The Harlots Tail—and worse, the Lawyer's Tongue.
The Lawyer, born to be a Friend to none,
False to our Interest, falser to their own;
For if a Future Doom their Errors wait,
Where is that One will pass the Narrow Gate?
The Text that says a Camel may as well
Go thro' a Needle, as the Rich scape Hell,
Was meant of Lawyers:—the ill-gotten Store
That makes one Rich, has made three Nations Poor.
Had I a thousand Sons, e'er one shou'd be
A Member of that vile Societie,
I'd in the Temple hang him up; nay boil
His Quarters, as a Traytors are, in Oil,
To fright all Future Villains from the Soil.
Call'd from the Town and plac'd in Safety here,
Free from the Ills that did surround me there:
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(Ah why are Minds not written on the Face!)
From Tradesmen's Cheats, and Blockhead's Doggrel Rhimes,
Which now are grown the Grievance of the Times:
To this we'll add what more our Peace does wrong,
The Harlots Tail—and worse, the Lawyer's Tongue.
The Lawyer, born to be a Friend to none,
False to our Interest, falser to their own;
For if a Future Doom their Errors wait,
Where is that One will pass the Narrow Gate?
The Text that says a Camel may as well
Go thro' a Needle, as the Rich scape Hell,
Was meant of Lawyers:—the ill-gotten Store
That makes one Rich, has made three Nations Poor.
Had I a thousand Sons, e'er one shou'd be
A Member of that vile Societie,
I'd in the Temple hang him up; nay boil
His Quarters, as a Traytors are, in Oil,
To fright all Future Villains from the Soil.
Freed from all this, and pleas'd she now is there
Where the fresh Seasons breath their vital Air,
The Muse (that has in Town been long confin'd,)
And doom'd to Business where she least inclin'd,)
Does now again her wonted Spright resume,
And with gay Feathers deck her airy Plume;
Ranging the Country round for Subject where
T'employ her utmost Skill, and kindliest Care,
Some noble Theme! that she may tow'ring rise,
And bear the Joyful Accents to the Skies.
So the glad Lark after a stormy Night,
(The Cloudless Morning smiling on her Flight)
Prun'd for the airy Journey, tries her Wings;
Then with unlessning Vigour upward springs,
To Heav'n her Note she sends, or thence her Note she brings!
Where the fresh Seasons breath their vital Air,
The Muse (that has in Town been long confin'd,)
And doom'd to Business where she least inclin'd,)
Does now again her wonted Spright resume,
And with gay Feathers deck her airy Plume;
Ranging the Country round for Subject where
T'employ her utmost Skill, and kindliest Care,
Some noble Theme! that she may tow'ring rise,
And bear the Joyful Accents to the Skies.
So the glad Lark after a stormy Night,
(The Cloudless Morning smiling on her Flight)
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Then with unlessning Vigour upward springs,
To Heav'n her Note she sends, or thence her Note she brings!
But long she need not look, her Game's in view;
Her best, her noblest, dearest Theme is YOU!
Not Souldiers when they plunge into the Fight,
Wish more for Conquest, or the Blind for Sight;
Not Morning Brides long more for Night to prove
The mutual Sweets of undissembl'd Love;
Nor the Ambitious more Delight in Fame,
Than she in Rural Cells to sound your Name.
To bless your Choice that here set up your Rest
Where Innocence and Honesty's profest.
No Courtier's Promise here our Hope beguiles,
No Villain's Art, or Woman's subt'ler Wiles,
All Falshood, tho' she weep, or frown, or smiles.
Securely here the Natives pass their Days,
Securely here you meet unenvy'd Praise.
Let Statesmen on their Country's Ruin rise,
And Priests be only Atheists in Disguise;
Let costly Whores sit at the Helm of State,
Pull down our Patriots, and make Panders Great;
Let flutt'ring Coxcombs lewdly wast their Days
In nauseous Converse, or more nauseous Plays;
Let, like Contagion, Vice the City seize,
Run thro' all Sexes, Ages, and Degrees,
And the Physician side with the Disease.
In vain it yet your Vertue wou'd attack,
You do but frown and drive the Siren back:
The General Post, untainted y'ave withstood,
And think it truly Noble to be truly Good.
Her best, her noblest, dearest Theme is YOU!
Not Souldiers when they plunge into the Fight,
Wish more for Conquest, or the Blind for Sight;
Not Morning Brides long more for Night to prove
The mutual Sweets of undissembl'd Love;
Nor the Ambitious more Delight in Fame,
Than she in Rural Cells to sound your Name.
To bless your Choice that here set up your Rest
Where Innocence and Honesty's profest.
No Courtier's Promise here our Hope beguiles,
No Villain's Art, or Woman's subt'ler Wiles,
All Falshood, tho' she weep, or frown, or smiles.
Securely here the Natives pass their Days,
Securely here you meet unenvy'd Praise.
Let Statesmen on their Country's Ruin rise,
And Priests be only Atheists in Disguise;
Let costly Whores sit at the Helm of State,
Pull down our Patriots, and make Panders Great;
Let flutt'ring Coxcombs lewdly wast their Days
In nauseous Converse, or more nauseous Plays;
Let, like Contagion, Vice the City seize,
Run thro' all Sexes, Ages, and Degrees,
And the Physician side with the Disease.
In vain it yet your Vertue wou'd attack,
You do but frown and drive the Siren back:
The General Post, untainted y'ave withstood,
And think it truly Noble to be truly Good.
Proud of their Titles, Equipage and Cloaths,
Some Men ne'er mention God but in their Oaths:
Religion they believe beneath their Race,
And only Poor Plebeians fit for Grace:
Their Wickedness is all their Proof for Wit,
And that of Honesty to keep in Debt.
O Stain to Quality! O Age accurst!
When the best-born are in their Practice worst.
Yet such (tho' only Vertue shou'd be Great)
Are trusted at the Helm, and steer the State.
How strangely do these Legislators run
From their own Acts? Make Laws, but practise none,
Neither of those in Scripture, nor their Own.
Edicts to keep the Sabbath more severe
Are issu'd out, when nothing's less their Care;
So much forgetting, commonly, the Day,
They've miss'd the Church and driven to the Play:
There lies there Main Devotion:—And yet wise
They must be thought; but all their Learning Lies
In Votes, Gazettes, and reading Ladies Eyes:
Where if they meet with Vertue, (which is rare)
They but admire that they may next ensnare.
So Schismaticks on Scripture shew their Art,
And Texts not for 'em wickedly pervert.
Some Men ne'er mention God but in their Oaths:
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And only Poor Plebeians fit for Grace:
Their Wickedness is all their Proof for Wit,
And that of Honesty to keep in Debt.
O Stain to Quality! O Age accurst!
When the best-born are in their Practice worst.
Yet such (tho' only Vertue shou'd be Great)
Are trusted at the Helm, and steer the State.
How strangely do these Legislators run
From their own Acts? Make Laws, but practise none,
Neither of those in Scripture, nor their Own.
Edicts to keep the Sabbath more severe
Are issu'd out, when nothing's less their Care;
So much forgetting, commonly, the Day,
They've miss'd the Church and driven to the Play:
There lies there Main Devotion:—And yet wise
They must be thought; but all their Learning Lies
In Votes, Gazettes, and reading Ladies Eyes:
Where if they meet with Vertue, (which is rare)
They but admire that they may next ensnare.
So Schismaticks on Scripture shew their Art,
And Texts not for 'em wickedly pervert.
But you, my Lord, more wisely place aright
In Nobler Authors your sublime Delight;
Authors that don't the less attract the Eye,
Because their Themes are Truth and Pietie.
The Writers in their Notions more abstruse,
You, in their Way, to like Advantage use:
These with sure Judgment and a reaching Eye
You search, and into hidden Causes pry,
Look Nature thro' make all their Roughness plain;
And find what Men well Learn'd have sought in vain.
In Nobler Authors your sublime Delight;
Authors that don't the less attract the Eye,
Because their Themes are Truth and Pietie.
The Writers in their Notions more abstruse,
You, in their Way, to like Advantage use:
These with sure Judgment and a reaching Eye
You search, and into hidden Causes pry,
Look Nature thro' make all their Roughness plain;
And find what Men well Learn'd have sought in vain.
Ah! wou'd the Atheist seriously incline,
Like YOU, to ponder things that are Divine;
Observe how GOD's high Wisdom does disperse
His quick'ning Influe'nce thro' the Universe;
How orderly Sun, Moon and Stars advance,
Create the Seasons in their Various Dance,
And shew their Essence not the Work of Chance;
But that th'Almighty made, and is the Soul
That actuates and maintains the Mighty Whole.
Wou'd he but faithfully on this reflect,
With just Confusion he'd his Crimes reject;
And, when unprejudic'd, by Reason see
In the least Spire of Grass the Deity.
But such you rather pity than deride,
Seduc'd by Luxu'ry, and confirm'd by Pride.
To call 'em Fools they think a gross Abuse;
And if they've Sense, they can have no Excuse
For putting such a Gift to such an Use.
Then Beasts why are we Nobler, but to know
And Contemplate the Pow'r that made us so?
Tho', Living, these let bold Expressions fly,
Droll on a Future State, and Heav'n defy,
They're sordid Cowards when they come to Die;
When for that Endless Station they embark,
Which Hobbs wou'd call a Leap into the Dark:
The Dark, indeed! his Portion must be Night,
That shuts his Eyes against so clear a Light,
And laughs at Scripture that wou'd guide him Right.
Like YOU, to ponder things that are Divine;
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His quick'ning Influe'nce thro' the Universe;
How orderly Sun, Moon and Stars advance,
Create the Seasons in their Various Dance,
And shew their Essence not the Work of Chance;
But that th'Almighty made, and is the Soul
That actuates and maintains the Mighty Whole.
Wou'd he but faithfully on this reflect,
With just Confusion he'd his Crimes reject;
And, when unprejudic'd, by Reason see
In the least Spire of Grass the Deity.
But such you rather pity than deride,
Seduc'd by Luxu'ry, and confirm'd by Pride.
To call 'em Fools they think a gross Abuse;
And if they've Sense, they can have no Excuse
For putting such a Gift to such an Use.
Then Beasts why are we Nobler, but to know
And Contemplate the Pow'r that made us so?
Tho', Living, these let bold Expressions fly,
Droll on a Future State, and Heav'n defy,
They're sordid Cowards when they come to Die;
When for that Endless Station they embark,
Which Hobbs wou'd call a Leap into the Dark:
The Dark, indeed! his Portion must be Night,
That shuts his Eyes against so clear a Light,
And laughs at Scripture that wou'd guide him Right.
Happy the Man that to be Vertu'ous strives,
And is prepar'd when the black Hour arrives:
Ten thousand Fears he daily does eschew,
That in wild Shapes the guilty Wretch pursue:
His smooth pac'd Hours unmurm'ring glide away,
His Troubles vanish, and his Comforts stay.
Of all the Good with which Mankind is blest,
That of a Conscience free from Guile is best.
Thus all your Words, and all your Actions, show
The Fountains Purity from whence they flow.
For who the Top of Honour wou'd attain,
Must ne'er do nothing mean, or lewd, or vain:
How e'er that Term by Fops is understood,
'Twas Vertue first that did distinguish Blood.
What signifies it tho' one boast he brings
His Pedigree from Conquerours and Kings;
If by ill Actions he debase his Birth,
And grow the Publick Scorn, or Publick Mirth?
In vain his high Descent and Ancient Stem,
There is more Honour in a Dog than Him;
Who taught by Instinct, and to Instinct true,
The proper End he's made for does pursue:
While Coxcombs ridicule Shape, Face and Mind,
And will be that for which they're not design'd.
Cowards in Scarf and Scarlet will appear,
The Foul pursue the Favour of the Fair;
Fools, that shou'd most be silent, most will prate,
And your brib'd Member thinks he props the State:
If to another Age like this we live,
Our Property will all resolve into Prerogative.
'Tis he alone has an Intrepid Soul
Whom Malice can't corrupt, or Fear controul;
That makes the British Glory still his Care,
It's Ornament in Peace, and Thunderbolt in War;
That sternly to the Beard opposes Pride,
And in all Strifes assists the Rightful Side:
Flatte'ry he scorns, so never falsly smiles,
No Scripture ridicules, or Church reviles:
In Posts of Trust all By-Regards he hates,
Nor from the Publick Misery drains Estates:
Merit he does encourage all he can,
His Age continues what his Youth began;
This only is the Honourable Man.
And is prepar'd when the black Hour arrives:
Ten thousand Fears he daily does eschew,
That in wild Shapes the guilty Wretch pursue:
His smooth pac'd Hours unmurm'ring glide away,
His Troubles vanish, and his Comforts stay.
Of all the Good with which Mankind is blest,
That of a Conscience free from Guile is best.
130
The Fountains Purity from whence they flow.
For who the Top of Honour wou'd attain,
Must ne'er do nothing mean, or lewd, or vain:
How e'er that Term by Fops is understood,
'Twas Vertue first that did distinguish Blood.
What signifies it tho' one boast he brings
His Pedigree from Conquerours and Kings;
If by ill Actions he debase his Birth,
And grow the Publick Scorn, or Publick Mirth?
In vain his high Descent and Ancient Stem,
There is more Honour in a Dog than Him;
Who taught by Instinct, and to Instinct true,
The proper End he's made for does pursue:
While Coxcombs ridicule Shape, Face and Mind,
And will be that for which they're not design'd.
Cowards in Scarf and Scarlet will appear,
The Foul pursue the Favour of the Fair;
Fools, that shou'd most be silent, most will prate,
And your brib'd Member thinks he props the State:
If to another Age like this we live,
Our Property will all resolve into Prerogative.
'Tis he alone has an Intrepid Soul
Whom Malice can't corrupt, or Fear controul;
That makes the British Glory still his Care,
It's Ornament in Peace, and Thunderbolt in War;
That sternly to the Beard opposes Pride,
And in all Strifes assists the Rightful Side:
Flatte'ry he scorns, so never falsly smiles,
No Scripture ridicules, or Church reviles:
In Posts of Trust all By-Regards he hates,
Nor from the Publick Misery drains Estates:
Merit he does encourage all he can,
His Age continues what his Youth began;
This only is the Honourable Man.
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In this old English Path you bravely show
How far a true Heroick Soul may go:
And then (a Blessing we but seldom find)
Your high Extractions mated to your Mind,
The brighter both when with each other join'd:
There's none so Great but he may Greater grow,
If with his Noble Birth he's Vertuous too:
Honour does then with double Glory shine,
Enobl'd, and Enobling of the Line:
Such Men are rais'd above the World's distrust,
They will not, dare not, cannot be unjust,
Nor basely side with Arbitrary Lust.
Thus, Justice we in all your Actions see,
Without which there were no Humanity:
The Christian Name preposterously he bears,
That uses his own Fellow Creatures worse that Brutes do theirs.
How far a true Heroick Soul may go:
And then (a Blessing we but seldom find)
Your high Extractions mated to your Mind,
The brighter both when with each other join'd:
There's none so Great but he may Greater grow,
If with his Noble Birth he's Vertuous too:
Honour does then with double Glory shine,
Enobl'd, and Enobling of the Line:
Such Men are rais'd above the World's distrust,
They will not, dare not, cannot be unjust,
Nor basely side with Arbitrary Lust.
Thus, Justice we in all your Actions see,
Without which there were no Humanity:
The Christian Name preposterously he bears,
That uses his own Fellow Creatures worse that Brutes do theirs.
But who can here omit (what ought to be
Admir'd and Prais'd by all) your Charity?
On those that love the Poor what Joys attend!
But chiefly this—he makes his GOD his Friend.
Who with this Vertue ever was a Slave?
Or who e'er wanted the Relief he gave?
Let those (ye Pow'rs!) be poor themselves that take
No Care of those in Want, but rather Poorer make;
Let not one Soul be softn'd with their Cries,
That they may feel the Mise'ry they despise.
And, to be plain, what Mercy can they e'er
Expect from Heav'n that not one Debtor spare?
That leave not on their naked Limbs a Thread,
And from the Labou'rer force his daily Bread?
Has the Rich Man a Greater GOD than they?
Or can he boast he's made of finer Clay?
Or will he have more Favour on the Judgment Day?
'Twas Charity redeem'd us from the Sin
Which our first Parents Fall had plung'd us in;
And, with the dearest Love that e'er was shown,
To raise us thither, sent a SAVIOUR down;
Who all that they had Lost, Regain'd:—and can
We do no more at his Command that did so much for Man?
Admir'd and Prais'd by all) your Charity?
On those that love the Poor what Joys attend!
But chiefly this—he makes his GOD his Friend.
Who with this Vertue ever was a Slave?
Or who e'er wanted the Relief he gave?
Let those (ye Pow'rs!) be poor themselves that take
No Care of those in Want, but rather Poorer make;
Let not one Soul be softn'd with their Cries,
That they may feel the Mise'ry they despise.
And, to be plain, what Mercy can they e'er
Expect from Heav'n that not one Debtor spare?
That leave not on their naked Limbs a Thread,
And from the Labou'rer force his daily Bread?
Has the Rich Man a Greater GOD than they?
Or can he boast he's made of finer Clay?
Or will he have more Favour on the Judgment Day?
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Which our first Parents Fall had plung'd us in;
And, with the dearest Love that e'er was shown,
To raise us thither, sent a SAVIOUR down;
Who all that they had Lost, Regain'd:—and can
We do no more at his Command that did so much for Man?
But such as these who can despise, like YOU,
And by the ill Example better grow;
That Greatness can't corrupt, or Courts entice,
Those Antick Schools of fashionable Vice;
That in his Heart prefers his Country Seat,
And relishes the Sweets of his Retreat;
Thinks it a Blessing London cannot give,
So lives, nay more, and so designs to live;
Whose piercing Eye the Flatterer can't escape,
Found and despis'd in his most soft'ning Shape;
That Counter-weighs against an Ages Crimes,
And is a good Man in the worst of Times;
'Tis there the mighty Nine their Voice shou'd raise,
And to the Vaults of Heav'n resound his Praise;
A long with Abingdon's the Name shou'd roll,
And, driving, Echo on from Pole to Pole.
And by the ill Example better grow;
That Greatness can't corrupt, or Courts entice,
Those Antick Schools of fashionable Vice;
That in his Heart prefers his Country Seat,
And relishes the Sweets of his Retreat;
Thinks it a Blessing London cannot give,
So lives, nay more, and so designs to live;
Whose piercing Eye the Flatterer can't escape,
Found and despis'd in his most soft'ning Shape;
That Counter-weighs against an Ages Crimes,
And is a good Man in the worst of Times;
'Tis there the mighty Nine their Voice shou'd raise,
And to the Vaults of Heav'n resound his Praise;
A long with Abingdon's the Name shou'd roll,
And, driving, Echo on from Pole to Pole.
Pardon, my Lord, that I have here so long
Done both your Vertue and your Patience wrong:
On this I have intrench'd, but blame my Fau't;
Nor have describ'd the other as I ought:
Yet since you condescend t'indulge the Muse,
What you encourage you'll, perhaps, excuse:
Kindly you still on her Endeavours smile,
And with a bounte'ous Hand reward her Toil.
O had I Strength to Balance my Desire,
Or wou'd the God Heroick Thoughts inspire,
To your high Worth a Lasting Fame I'd give—
Nor shall it Die if what I write does Live.
Done both your Vertue and your Patience wrong:
On this I have intrench'd, but blame my Fau't;
Nor have describ'd the other as I ought:
Yet since you condescend t'indulge the Muse,
What you encourage you'll, perhaps, excuse:
Kindly you still on her Endeavours smile,
And with a bounte'ous Hand reward her Toil.
O had I Strength to Balance my Desire,
Or wou'd the God Heroick Thoughts inspire,
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Nor shall it Die if what I write does Live.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |