The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. Containing, besides his Sermons, and Essays on miscellaneous subjects, several additional pieces, Selected from his Manuscripts by the Rev. Dr. Jennings, and the Rev. Dr. Doddridge, in 1753: to which are prefixed, memoirs of the life of the author, compiled by the Rev. George Burder. In six volumes |
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| TO DAVID POLHILL, ESQ.
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 | The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. |  |
TO DAVID POLHILL, ESQ.
An Answer to an infamous Satire, called Advice to a Painter; written by a nameless Author, against King William III. of glorious Memory, 1698.
[_]
SIR,
When you put this satire into my hand, you gave me the occasion of employing my pen to answer so detestable a writing; which might be done much more effectually by your known zeal for the interest of his majesty, your counsels and your courage, employed in the defence of your king and country. And, since you provoked me to write, you will accept of these efforts of my loyalty to the best of kings, addressed to one of the most zealous of his subjects, by,
Sir, Your most obedient servant, I. W.I. PART I.
And must the hero, that redeem'd our land,
Here in the front of vice and scandal stand?
The man of wondrous soul, that scorn'd his ease,
Tempting the winters, and the faithless seas,
And paid an annual tribute of his life
To guard his England from the Irish knife,
And crush the French dragoon? Must William's name,
That brightest star that gilds the wings of fame,
William the brave, the pious, and the just,
Adorn these gloomy scenes of tyranny and lust?
Here in the front of vice and scandal stand?
The man of wondrous soul, that scorn'd his ease,
Tempting the winters, and the faithless seas,
And paid an annual tribute of his life
To guard his England from the Irish knife,
And crush the French dragoon? Must William's name,
That brightest star that gilds the wings of fame,
William the brave, the pious, and the just,
Adorn these gloomy scenes of tyranny and lust?
Polhill, my blood boils high, my spirits flame;
Can your zeal sleep! Or are your passions tame?
Nor call revenge and darkness on the poet's name?
Why smoke the skies not? Why no thunders roll?
Nor kindling lightnings blast his guilty soul?
Audacious wretch! to stab a monarch's fame,
And fire his subjects with a rebel-flame;
To call the painter to his black designs,
To draw our guardian's face in hellish lines:
Painter, beware! the monarch can be shown
Under no shape but angels, or his own,
Gabriel, or William, on the British throne.
Can your zeal sleep! Or are your passions tame?
Nor call revenge and darkness on the poet's name?
Why smoke the skies not? Why no thunders roll?
Nor kindling lightnings blast his guilty soul?
Audacious wretch! to stab a monarch's fame,
And fire his subjects with a rebel-flame;
To call the painter to his black designs,
To draw our guardian's face in hellish lines:
Painter, beware! the monarch can be shown
Under no shape but angels, or his own,
Gabriel, or William, on the British throne.
O! could my thought but grasp the vast design,
And words with infinite ideas join,
I'd rouse Appelles, from his iron sleep,
And bid him trace the warrior o'er the deep:
Trace him, Appelles, o'er the Belgian plain,
Fierce how he climbs the mountains of the slain,
Scatt'ring just vengeance thro' the red campaign.
Then dash the canvas with a flying stroke,
Till it be lost in clouds of fire and smoke,
And say, 'Twas thus the conqueror thro' the squadrons broke.
Mark him again emerging from the cloud,
Far from his troops; there like a rock he stood
His country's single barrier in a sea of blood.
Calmly he leaves the pleasure of a throne,
And his Maria weeping; whilst alone
He wards the fate of nations, and provokes his own:
But heav'n secures its champion; o'er the field
Paint hov'ring angels; tho' they fly conceal'd,
Each intercepts a death, and wears it on his shield.
And words with infinite ideas join,
I'd rouse Appelles, from his iron sleep,
And bid him trace the warrior o'er the deep:
Trace him, Appelles, o'er the Belgian plain,
Fierce how he climbs the mountains of the slain,
Scatt'ring just vengeance thro' the red campaign.
Then dash the canvas with a flying stroke,
Till it be lost in clouds of fire and smoke,
And say, 'Twas thus the conqueror thro' the squadrons broke.
Mark him again emerging from the cloud,
Far from his troops; there like a rock he stood
His country's single barrier in a sea of blood.
479
And his Maria weeping; whilst alone
He wards the fate of nations, and provokes his own:
But heav'n secures its champion; o'er the field
Paint hov'ring angels; tho' they fly conceal'd,
Each intercepts a death, and wears it on his shield.
Now noble pencil, lead him to our isle,
Mark how the skies with joyful lustre smile,
Then imitate the glory; on the strand
Spread half the nation, longing till he land.
Wash off the blood, and take a peaceful teint,
All red the warrior, white the ruler paint:
Abroad a hero, and at home a saint.
Throne him on high upon a shining seat,
Lust and profaneness dying at his feet,
While round his head the laurel and the olive meet,
The crowns of war and peace; and may they blow
With flow'ry blessings ever on his brow.
At his right-hand pile up the English laws
In sacred volumes; thence the monarch draws
His wise and just commands—
Rise, ye old sages of the British isle,
On the fair tablet cast a reverend smile,
And bless the piece; these statutes are your own,
That sway the cottage, and direct the throne;
People and prince are one in William's name.
Their joys, their dangers, and their laws the same.
Mark how the skies with joyful lustre smile,
Then imitate the glory; on the strand
Spread half the nation, longing till he land.
Wash off the blood, and take a peaceful teint,
All red the warrior, white the ruler paint:
Abroad a hero, and at home a saint.
Throne him on high upon a shining seat,
Lust and profaneness dying at his feet,
While round his head the laurel and the olive meet,
The crowns of war and peace; and may they blow
With flow'ry blessings ever on his brow.
At his right-hand pile up the English laws
In sacred volumes; thence the monarch draws
His wise and just commands—
Rise, ye old sages of the British isle,
On the fair tablet cast a reverend smile,
And bless the piece; these statutes are your own,
That sway the cottage, and direct the throne;
People and prince are one in William's name.
Their joys, their dangers, and their laws the same.
Let liberty, and right, with plumes display'd,
Clap their glad wings around their guardian's head,
Religion o'er the rest her starry pinions spread.
Religion guards him; round th'imperial queen
Place waiting virtues, each of heav'nly mien;
Learn their bright air, and paint it from his eyes;
The just, the bold, the temperate, and the wise
Dwell in his looks; majestic, but serene;
Sweet, with no fondness; cheerful but not vain:
Bright, without terror; great, without disdain.
His soul inspires us what his lips command,
And spreads his brave example thro' the land:
Not so the former reigns;—
Bend down his earth to each afflicted cry,
Let beams of grace dart gently from his eye;
But the bright treasures of his sacred breast
Are too divine, too vast to be exprest:
Colours must fail where words and numbers faint,
And leave the hero's heart for thought alone to paint.
Clap their glad wings around their guardian's head,
Religion o'er the rest her starry pinions spread.
Religion guards him; round th'imperial queen
Place waiting virtues, each of heav'nly mien;
Learn their bright air, and paint it from his eyes;
The just, the bold, the temperate, and the wise
Dwell in his looks; majestic, but serene;
Sweet, with no fondness; cheerful but not vain:
Bright, without terror; great, without disdain.
His soul inspires us what his lips command,
And spreads his brave example thro' the land:
Not so the former reigns;—
Bend down his earth to each afflicted cry,
Let beams of grace dart gently from his eye;
But the bright treasures of his sacred breast
Are too divine, too vast to be exprest:
Colours must fail where words and numbers faint,
And leave the hero's heart for thought alone to paint.
II. PART II.
Now, muse, pursue the satirist again,
Wipe off the blots of his envenom'd pen;
Hark, how he bids the servile painter draw,
In monstrous shapes, the patrons of our law;
At one slight dash he cancels every name
From the white rolls of honesty and fame:
This scribbling wretch marks all he meets for knave,
Shoots sudden bolts promiscuous at the base and brave,
And with unpardonable malice sheds
Poison and spite on undistinguish'd heads.
Painter, forbear; or if thy bolder hand
Dares to attempt the villains of the land,
Draw first this poet, like some baleful star,
With silent influence shedding civil war;
Or factious trumpeter, whose magic sound
Calls off the subjects to the hostile ground,
And scatters hellish feuds the nation round.
These are the imps of hell, that cursed tribe
That first create the plague, and then the pain describe.
Wipe off the blots of his envenom'd pen;
Hark, how he bids the servile painter draw,
In monstrous shapes, the patrons of our law;
At one slight dash he cancels every name
From the white rolls of honesty and fame:
This scribbling wretch marks all he meets for knave,
Shoots sudden bolts promiscuous at the base and brave,
And with unpardonable malice sheds
Poison and spite on undistinguish'd heads.
Painter, forbear; or if thy bolder hand
Dares to attempt the villains of the land,
Draw first this poet, like some baleful star,
With silent influence shedding civil war;
Or factious trumpeter, whose magic sound
Calls off the subjects to the hostile ground,
And scatters hellish feuds the nation round.
These are the imps of hell, that cursed tribe
That first create the plague, and then the pain describe.
Draw next above, the great ones of our isle,
Still from the good distinguishing the vile;
Seat 'em in pomp, in grandeur, and command,
Peeling the subjects with a greedy hand:
Paint forth the knaves that have the nation sold,
And tinge their greedy looks with sordid gold.
Mark what a selfish faction undermines
The pious monarch's generous designs,
Spoil their own native land as vipers do,
Vipers that tear their mothers bowels through.
Let great Nassau, beneath a careful crown,
Mournful in majesty, look gently down,
Mingling soft pity with an awful frown:
He grieves to see how long in vain he strove
To make us blest, how vain his labours prove
To save the stubborn land he condescends to love.
Still from the good distinguishing the vile;
Seat 'em in pomp, in grandeur, and command,
Peeling the subjects with a greedy hand:
Paint forth the knaves that have the nation sold,
And tinge their greedy looks with sordid gold.
Mark what a selfish faction undermines
The pious monarch's generous designs,
Spoil their own native land as vipers do,
Vipers that tear their mothers bowels through.
Let great Nassau, beneath a careful crown,
Mournful in majesty, look gently down,
Mingling soft pity with an awful frown:
He grieves to see how long in vain he strove
To make us blest, how vain his labours prove
To save the stubborn land he condescends to love.
| The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. | |