University of Virginia Library

An Epistle TO THE RIGHT HON. HENRY FOX.

Written in August 1745.

RARE, and more rare, my verses still appear,
I scarce produce a poem in a year.
Yet blame not, Fox, or hear me e'er you blame;
My genius droops, my spirit's not the same.
My verse comes harder, and the little fire
I once possess'd, I daily feel expire;
Not as when urg'd by your desire I strung
My willing lyre, and bolder numbers sung;
Daring the patriot's treach'ry to rehearse,
Till statesmen trembled at th' impending verse.
To speak and charm in public, friend, is thine:
The silent arts of poetry are mine:
And when some striking thought affects my mind,
I rest not till to paper 'tis consign'd.
Then with a parent's fondness I behold
My child escap'd from memory's treach'rous hold;
And smooth'd in verse, and harmoniz'd in rhyme,
I dream 'tis plac'd beyond the reach of time.
The torrent bears, my genius points the way,
I feel the impulse, and with joy obey.
Yet Vanity did ne'er allure to Fame,
I had no fondness for an author's name;
My works, like bastards, dropt about the town,
No author claim'd, no bookseller would own.
Ambition had no beauty in my eyes;
Verses like mine would hardly make me rise,
For ev'ry statesman hates poetic blows,
Tho' heavy on the shoulders of their foes;
And doubtful where the Satire may point next,
They laugh, they fear, like, hate, are pleas'd and vex'd.
'Twas your desire (perhaps your flattery too)—
My verse, my fame, if any, springs from you;
And here I pay my tribute where 'tis due.
Your smiles were all my vanity requir'd,
Your nod was all the fame that I desir'd;
All my ambition was, to gain your praise,
And all my pleasure, you alone to please.
Yet PRUDENCE will be whispering in my ear,
(A croaking voice that I detest and hear;
Whom anxious thoughts preceding still we find,
And Plenty with a niggard horn behind.)
“Why will you write,” she cries, “forsake the Muse,
“Despise her gifts, her influence refuse;
“To me in all thy life, for once attend,
“Prudence to parts, would prove a useful friend.
“I know your wants, and offer you my aid;
“Which still you shun contemptuous and afraid;
“Pleas'd with the praise, some partial few may give,
“The hate and envy of the rest, you live:
“Write rashly on, regardless whom you hit,
“And yield to Satire, when impell'd by wit.”
“Cease Goddess, cease,” I cry, “I'll hear no more,
“I've ever been a rebel to thy power;
“Your caution's right, your arguments are true,
“Th' advice is good, but 'tis unpleasant too.
“Vain are your toils, and fruitless is your aid,
“Whene'er you strive to change what nature made;
“Turn to your altars, on your vot'ries shine,
“See Pelham ever kneeling at thy shrine.
“Thro' you at first, by slow degrees he rose,
“To you the zenith of his power he owes;
“You taught him in your middle-way to steer,
“Impartial, mod'rate, candid, to appear.
“Fearful of enmity, to friendship cold,
“Cautiously frank, and timorously bold;
“And so observant never to offend
“A foe, he quite forgets to fix a friend.
“Long vers'd in politics, but poor in parts,
“The Courtier's tricks, but not the Statesman's arts;
“His smile obedient to his purpose still,
“Some dirty compromise his utmost skill.
“In vain his own penurious soil he till'd,
“In vain he glean'd from Walpole's plenteous field;
“In vain the exchequer robes around him flow,
“The mantle does not make the prophet now.
“Behind him close, behold Newcastle's Grace,
“Haste in his step, and absence in his face;
“Who daily suppliant to thy temple goes,
“And courts the Goddess, as he courts his foes.
“Yet, spite of all thy influence, all thy care,
“His prudence always deviates into fear;
“His natural gifts so low, he strives in vain
“To climb a height, that Dulness can attain;
“Which Rushout reach'd, with long-opposing tir'd,
“On which thy fav'rite, Wilmington, expir'd;
“Where pliant Dorset sits, and long has sat,
“Secure from changes, and the storms of state.”
But arbitrary Fortune (who derides,
Whate'er Experience frames, or Wisdom guides;
Without whose smiles, all honour, virtue, worth,
Still plead in vain) presided at his birth
Newcastle, then (and yet a child), she blest,
And rapt'rous these prophetic truths exprest;
“Tho' void of honesty, of sense, of art,
“A foolish head, and a perfidious heart.
“Yet riches, honours, pow'r, he shall enjoy,
“Parties shall follow, monarch shall employ;
“Great Britain's seal be to his hand consign'd,
“The Ducal coronet his temples bind.
“He shall betray and lye, but all in vain,
“Spite of himself, his posts he shall maintain;
“No changes shall involve my fav'rite's fall,
“He'll join the current, and be all to all.
“Let him but keep his outside show of power,
“He'll act with Orford, Granville, Bath, or Gower:”
“Prudence, howe'er you smile, howe'er are kind,
“Thy vot'ries ne'er are leaders of mankind;
“Unfit to govern England's restive realm,
“She asks a genius to conduct her helm,
“That dares forsake thy paths, offend thy law,
“Unaw'd by all the fantoms that you draw.
“Thy fav'rites should to Switzerland repair,
“And gently rule some peaceful Canton there;
“Or in the neutral, Adriatic state,
“With her inactive senators debate:
“Think how thy Pelham would in Lucca shine,
“And Sands be in Marino styl'd divine.
“There let'em shine, but Britain's reins demand
“An Orford's, or, at least, a Granville's hand.
“Hence, Goddess, to such supplicants repair,
“Who make thy narrow rules their only care;
“Whose utmost aim is, barely to do well,
“Taught by thy precepts never to excel:
“Here I renounce thee, fly thy out-stretch'd arms,
“And own the Muse's more prevailing charms.”
And why not own them? can't her pow'r remove
The curse of poverty, the pangs of love?
Blunt th' edge of pain, unload the weight of care,
Hush loud distress, and mitigate despair?
Have not her smiles, when sunk in private grief,
Turn'd my disorder'd mind, and brought relief;
Bid agonizing thought at distance wait,
Nor dare approach the Muse's sacred seat?
Nor can she only give Affliction ease,
Pleasure is her's, and her's the power to please;
She can amuse a friend's unbended hour,
And ev'ry fair one owns the Muse's pow'r.
Have not my lays made Ilchester attend,
Berkeley approve, and Harrington commend?
Has not my verse o'er Cælia's frown prevail'd?
The poet triumph'd where the lover fail'd.
But farther still her wide command is shown,
Immortal Fame attends on her alone;
In vain, without her cares, without her smiles,
The Hero conquers, and the Statesman toils:
Their names would soon in dark oblivion lie,
But that the Muse forbids the good to die.
She bids them live—and from the silent tomb,
Draws forth examples for the times to come.
'Tis by her influence, too, her sons survive,
And more than share the vast renown they give;
Still round the Goddess diff'rent laurels grow,
To crown the Hero, and the Poet too.
And while posterity with rapture reads,
Æneas' labours, and Achilles' deeds;
Beyond all piety or feats of arms,
'Tis Virgil pleases and 'tis Homer charms.
Tho' more inclin'd to give desert its praise,
Yet keenest Satire waits upon her lays;
Virtue and Vice are both within her view,
She can reward—but she can punish too:
And from her just revenge, and slighted power,
No abject state can hide, no height secure.
She from the kennel rakes up Chartres' shame;
She plucks down Bath's exalted dirty name;
Her arrows fly thro' every rank of men:
Pelham read this, and dread the lifted pen.
The chosen few whose praise I strive to gain,
Still urge my songs, and still approve the strain.
I dread their censure, but th' applause they give
I feel, for they can judge, but not deceive.
Has my young Walpole, blest with truest taste,
Adorn'd with learning, with politeness grac'd,
When I repeated, thought the moments long,
Friend to the Poet partial to his song?
When Winnington fatigued with public cares,
With me the social hours of friendship shares;
He too awakes the Muse, and bids me write,
Points out the quarry, and directs my flight:
But while I mention him, all flattery hence,
'Twould wrong our friendship, and 't would wrong his sense.
In him we find unite, what rarely meet,
Parts join'd with application, sense with wit;
A piercing eye, a countenance erect,
Quick to invent, judicious to correct;
Warm to attack, but warmer to defend,
The fairest foe, and the sincerest friend;
Above th' intrigues, and windings of a court,
Acknowledg'd merit has his sure support.
His converse new and just delight affords,
Rich in the brightest thoughts and aptest words;
Whene'er he speaks, his audience is charm'd,
Taught by his sense, and by his spirit warm'd.
“But Orford's self, I've seen whilst I have read,
Laugh the heart's laugh, and nod th' approving
“Pardon, great Shade, if, duteous, on thy herse
“I hang my grateful tributary verse:
“If I who follow'd thro' thy various day,
“Thy glorious zenith and thy bright decay,
“Now strew thy tomb with flow'rs, and o'er thy urn,
“With England, Liberty, and Envy mourn.”
His soul was great, and dar'd not but do well,
His noble pride still urg'd him to excel;
Above the thirst of gold—if in his heart
Ambition govern'd, Av'rice had no part.
A genius to explore untrodden ways,
Where prudence sees no track, nor ever strays;
Which books and schools, in vain attempt to teach,
And which laborious art can never reach.
Falsehood and flatt'ry, and the tricks of court,
He left to Statesmen of a meaner sort;
Their cloaks and smiles were offer'd him in vain,
His acts were justice which he dar'd maintain,
His words were truth that held them in disdain.
Open to friends, but ev'n to foes sincere,
Alike remote from jealousy and fear;
Tho' Envy's howl, tho' Faction's hiss he heard,
Tho' senates frown'd, tho' death itself appear'd:
Calmly he view'd them—conscious that his ends
Were right, and Truth and Innocence his friends.
Thus was he form'd to govern and to please,
Familiar greatness, dignity with ease,
Compos'd his frame—admir'd in ev'ry state,
In private amiable—in public great:
Gentle in pow'r—but daring in disgrace,
His love was liberty—his wish was peace.
Such was the man that smil'd upon my lays,
And what can heighten thought or genius raise,
Like praise from him whom all mankind must praise;
Whose knowledge, courage, temper, all surpris'd,
Whom many lov'd, few hated, none despis'd.
Here then I rest, and since it is decreed
The pleasing paths of poetry to tread;
Hear me, O Muse! receive one poet more,
Consenting bend, and pour down all thy store:
No longer constant round Parnassus rove,
But change the scene, and smile on Coldbrook's Grove.
Here too are limpid streams, here oaks their shade
O'er mossy turf more soft than slumber spread;
Expression, thought, and numbers, bring along,
But, above all, let truth attend my song:
So shall my verse still please the men I love,
Make Winnington commend, and my own Fox approve.