Oculus Britanniae An Heroi-Panegyrical poem on the University of Oxford. Illustrated with divers beautiful Similes, and useful Digressions [by Nicholas Amhurst] |
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 | Oculus Britanniae |  |
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Oculus Britanniæ, &c.
Matron of arts, and to the british youthThou shining pillar of religious truth,
Sprung from primæval kings and saints divine,
Thy sacred ear, illustrious dame! incline,
Whilst filial duty wings my youthful lays,
And prompts me forward, studious of thy praise.
2
Of Alma's glories in an equal strain?
Unskill'd in verse, and to the muses young,
What God, what angel, will inform my tongue?
Aid me, Delaune; instruct me, reverend sire,
With thy own sacred heat my breast inspire:
O! touch my lips with thy cœlestial art,
And with the same devotion fire my heart.
Enough, enough!—through every kindling vein
Thy god-like fury shoots and fires my brain;
The same strong impulse and religious flame,
Which in the pulpit shakes thy goodly frame:
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To kick obdurate whigs, in rampant zeal:
Like yours, methinks, my eyes in lightning roll,
Like yours, tumultuous raptures lift my soul;
Inspir'd I soar beyond my common flight,
And I am either fit to rhime or fight.
In this divine delirium, to my eyes
Abstracted forms, and fancied objects rise;
Whilst the pleas'd muse in thoughtful silence roves
Through the cool shades, and academick groves,
In the clear fountains, and the silvan springs
Sees the young cygnets dip their snowy wings;
Observes the streams of science roll along,
Here floats a syllogism, there a song;
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And problems there, instead of gudgeons, glide.
Through these religious vallies as I stray,
What crouds of ancient worthies throng the way?
The ghosts of old philosophers appear,
That once adorn'd the place and flourish'd here:
Muse, tune thy voice, in homage bend thy head,
And pay just honours to the learned dead.
See! that lean spectre! horrible and wan,
Whose meagre looks declare the quondam man.
Hail mighty Scotus! hail unrival'd sage!
The pride and glory of the monkish age!
Reverse of bookworm! which on books is fed
For books devour'd thee up, and wore thee dead
5
Who twenty folio tomes hast left behind!
Unlike the modern writers of our land,
Whom every shallow wit can understand,
So deep your logick flows and so profound,
No common plummet can the bottom sound.
Thy pride it was to sift the darkest themes,
To hood-wink truth and reconcile extremes,
Self-contradicting tenets to maintain,
And prove by reason, that all reason's vain.
Him Bacon follows, whose illustrious name
Lives in the annals of recording fame,
That antient monk, renown'd in every part,
For his wise Brazen-Head and magick art;
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Since conjurers here are now so rarely found.
But see! another rev'rend form appears,
Whose headless trunk provokes my flowing tears;
The sacred lawn his gushing blood distains;
And with religious horror chills my veins:
Much-injur'd Laud, religion's boldest chief,
A while, great shade, indulge the muse's grief;
O prelate, greatly for the church distrest,
What zeal, what fury could inflame thy breast,
The rage of british senates to withstand,
And stem the torrent of a factious land?
Yet shalt thou not repent the pious deed,
Though destin'd by the traytor's ax to bleed:
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A rubrick martyr shalt thou stand inroll'd;
His annual debt thy successor shall pay,
And crown with solemn woe the woeful day.
The reverend and learned Dr. Delaune, President of St. John's college, who has instituted a publick oration to the memory of arch-bishop Laud, who was formerly president of the same college, on the 10th of January, being the anniversary of his martyrdom.
Whose godly reign cœlestial gifts adorn,
That royal saint, whose salutiferous hand,
First from the noisome Evil purg'd the land.
Stupendous art! to pious kings reveal'd,
And witness'd by the crouds that have been heal'd;
Such Edward was, by gracious heaven design'd,
From scabs and ulcers to relieve mankind,
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He shun'd the enjoyment of his lawful wife.
From age to age this wondrous art prevail'd,
(When the whole boasted strength of medicine fail'd)
Through a long race of monarchs, all divine,
'Till but of late it ceas'd with Stuart's line,
Unless, adhering to some good old wives,
In Stuart's lineal race it still survives.
Here then, O James! let the long contest end,
And on this issue let thy birth depend;
In the wide forum of imperial Rome,
Build a large stage and bid the lazars come,
By this grand secret prove the Stuart line,
And let thy cures confirm thy right divine:
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The sores heal up, and all the scabs decay,
In spight of Burnet's tales, and Britain's scorn,
Will own thee most miraculously born.
Hail sacred art! the priesthood's darling theme,
Unlike our late inoculating scheme,
That strange inverted Science, rash and blind,
Which plants diseases, and infects mankind,
Of cruel Turks and infidels the boast,
And first devis'd on hell's infernal coast;
For so the priest aver'd, in holy satire,
And prov'd old Nick the first inoculator.
10
Who drops with sullen pride his mitred crest!
Mark! how he bears resentment in his eye,
And damns his sovereign, as he passes by!
Some minion of the court, from favour thrown!
And lo! his form bespeaks the butcher's son!
In every look great Wolsey stands confess'd;
See how the rising passion heaves his breast!
See! how his eyes with reddening vengeance glow,
And how with hasty strides he spurns the sand below!
Fall down, ye sons of Christ-church, at his feet,
And gratefully your benefactor greet;
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How much indebted, and oblig'd you stand.
He first with large endowments did intail
Your loins of mutton, and your butts of ale;
To him you owe the soft engaging art
Of pretty songs and epigrams so smart:
'Twas he that took you from the rural plains,
And made you scholards, who had else been swains;
Instead of jolly canons, you had now
Perhaps some livery worn, or follow'd plow,
Perhaps some painful servile life have led,
Or in the shambles, like himself, been bred.
Malicious tongues indeed with censures loud
Stile him imperious, turbulent and proud,
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To persecution, and to rage inclin'd;
In whoredom and pollution uncontroul'd,
And to a proverb arrogantly bold;
A publick drunkard, and a college thief,
In act a brute, an atheist in belief:
To lust, they say, he sacrific'd his breath,
And perish'd of the foul, venereal death.
Such heavy loads of infamy and shame
Our bold reformers charge on Wolsey's Name;
Proud of their northern heresies deride
His priestly grandeur and religious pride,
Hand down his vices to succeeding times,
And make his function aggravate his Crimes.
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And with a church-man's indignation fir'd,
Lists in this great, unhappy prelate's cause,
And by more candid rules his picture draws;
Solves all objections which historians make,
And screens his failings for his function's sake.
Behold him now, by Fiddes varnish'd o'er,
Unlike the monstrous fiend you shunn'd before,
His magick pages wipe off every taint,
The atheist and the brute becomes a saint;
His drunkenness is only nature's slip,
(For who alas! can from temptation keep?)
His impudence, in courtly language drest,
The great ascendant happily express'd;
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And persecution is the church's cause;
Revenge is taking God almighty's part,
And pride the token of a noble heart.
His whoredom and pollution who can blame,
Since Solomon was guilty of the same?
His college-frauds, it must be understood,
Were well design'd, and for the publick good,
To finish towers, old steeples to repair,
And build religious castles in the air:
Nor is he last of all that godly croud,
To whom this candid plea has been allow'd.
That of the pox he dy'd, and such like stuff,
Great Fiddes says 'tis false, and that's enough.
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Shines forth an angel of unspotted light;
Shakes off the rust of threescore gloomy Years,
And in his volume like a god appears.
One pious work, o! Fiddes, still remains,
A theme well worthy your immortal pains;
And since in vindications you abound,
As Wolsey and his Grace have lately found,
To one great church-man more your aid afford,
And let unhappy Judas be the third,
In his defence at least it may be said,
That what he did alas! he did for bread,
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To save a numerous family from want:
Doctor, 'twill do; the pious task begin,
Clear up his case, and prove the kiss no sin;
This will for ever all our foes defeat,
And thy divine Apologies compleat.
Fam'd for their learning, or illustrious deeds;
Physicians, lawyers, and a medly throng
Of preaching clerks and poets that have sung,
Logicians that have foil'd the states-man's schemes,
And prophets that sav'd nations by their dreams;
Casuists and school-divines, whose mystick skill
Could alter vice and virtue at their will,
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And tyranny the blessing of an age,
Turn pure religion into mortal sin,
And make the devil to the saints a-kin.
But shall the dead alone engross my lays?
O, no; the living shall partake my praise;
Muse prune thy pinions for a second flight,
For living heroes claim an equal height.
But where, encompass'd with a mingled blaze
Of doughty sculls, shall I begin to praise?
Where'er around I cast my wondring eyes,
Heroic bards and shining beaux arise;
In the same jovial common room I see
The prim canonic bob and smart tupeè;
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And deep logicians puzzle sense away;
Pert crambo-wags with subtil school-men joke,
And punsters and divines in consort smoke.
In this illustrious croud, so learn'd and wise,
Brazen, the college tyrant, charms my eyes;
Great must his merits be, his virtues choice,
Which five successive years gain'd Arran's voice:
In him at least some excellence is shown,
Fam'd for his brother's parts, if not his own;
His brother's virtues, all divinely bright,
Reflect on him a pale inferiour light:
What for the cause his patriot-brother bears,
The learned Head in ordinance declares;
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With the same zealous pangs his bosom beats;
Oft in his veins he boasts true-british blood,
And raves devoutly for his country's good;
Of naughty statesmen ecchoes dismal tales,
And against Walpole, o'er his bottle, rails.
Though from the sun she borrows all her rays.
Next, to Delaune, as next to Brazen's heart,
Muse touch the string, and prove thy utmost art:
O! for a pinion from the mantuan swan,
To reach the mighty theme, and sing the man
Who more than forty years, a shining space,
Has graced these walls, and still vouchsafes to grace:
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(All far unequal to his great deserts)
Who wants no virtue, by no vice defaced,
Wise, learned, pious, sober, humble, chast,
So strictly honest, so severely just,
And rigidly tenacious of his trust,
That his integrity surmounts my song,
And ev'n to name it, is to do him wrong.
From such proud heights, o! muse presumptous bend,
And to his private qualities descend;
Say how his soul in conversation shines,
Oe'r the third bottle how his wit refines,
How in smart jests his sacred lips excel,
What mirth they start, and jocund fables tell,
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Ev'n stubborn Amhurst will these truths confess.
So Lucifer, when fal'n, was forc'd to own
The bright superior pow'r, that hurl'd him down.
How for his college he employs his care,
How helpless orphans his protection share,
H**dw**th and W**s, shall solemnly declare,
And if superior evidence we need,
H---es on the gospel shall attest the deed;
Sm**th shall confirm his oath, if that avail,
And O---n stand his sacramental bail.
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From all surmises of corruption clear'd;
He to the press the deathless work convey'd,
By no base bribes, nor partial motives sway'd;
He scorn'd to vary from the written tale,
Nor could the hopes of bishopricks prevail:
Yet if the foe will still insult thy name,
And with black scandal strive to taint thy fame,
Soon shall he blush; for Hide's impartial ghost
Shall visit earth, to this defamer's cost,
And purge thy virtue, though the copy's lost.
Fain would the muse, inflam'd with pious zeal,
Millions of other graces still reveal,
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His equal mind and temper void of rage,
His energy in pray'r, his faith sublime,
His meekness, love and candour to a crime;
But conscious of her weakness she declines,
And to some college-bard the glorious theme resigns.
Nor shall that hoary seer remain unsung,
To whom the reins of Exeter belong,
That learned doctor, and that frugal Head,
Who grudges ev'n himself his daily bread,
Of so penurious, provident a sense,
He curses human life for its expence,
And often wishes he was under ground,
Rather than lose a penny in the pound.
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Still with the setting sun to go to rest,
Unless, to finish something for his shop,
Fletcher will pay him well for sitting up:
Yet few, I fear, will think it worth their while,
So languid is his matter and his stile,
To publish all the volumes he could write;
Poor Wh*st*r was alas! half ruin'd by't.
With half a fowl, and half a penny small
He makes a sober dinner in the hall,
(Such slender meals suffice his famish'd nerves,)
And the minc'd fragment for his supper serves.
Stooping with age, he dodders as he goes,
From his red eyes a rheumy torrent flows,
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Dams up the little blood that creeps within,
Threescore and ten have quench'd his vital heat,
And his decaying pulses scarcely beat;
Yet thus disabled, for the longing dame
he feels the pangs of love, though not the flame;
Fair Raggabel, that near his college-gate
Fine china sells, and tea, and chocolate,
Or mends old tatter'd gowns with matchless art,
Shines in his eye, and triumphs in his heart;
Oft to her shop the feeble lecher strays,
Toys with her hand, or with her bubbies plays;
On her dear face he rolls his doting eyes,
As she weighs coffee, or the needle plies;
One evening, prostrate on his tottering knees,
The sapless dotard spoke in words like these;
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Who with their beauty grace these learned shades,
Behold! what conquests thy perfections gain,
A reverend, aged doctor wears thy chain,
Me whom a college for its Head obeys,
To whom each fellow servile homage pays,
Thy beauty captivates, thy charms inthral,
Ev'n at these years a slave to love I fall.
And o! my dearest Raggy, do not quite
Break my old heart, or judge my torments slight,
Unlike raw boys who tell you fulsome lies,
Adore this moment, and the next despise,
Ripen'd with age my passion cannot change,
Nor will my years permit my heart to range;
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Bless my desiring, my impatient arms,
One evening at my lodgings let me prove
With how much truth and constancy I love.
The damsel, though with wit not over-stock'd,
With this severe reply his reverence shock'd;
What pity is it that desire should last,
And the good-will to sin, when youth is past?
Thy passions still remain, thrice holy drone,
And ah! I grieve to think the sting is gone:
Yes, I behold thee with a pitying eye,
And for my sake, good man! thou shalt not dye;
Since at your lodgings you request my sight,
I'll wait upon you there to morrow night;
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And do, dear doctor, do thy very worst.
Be not so mighty smart the don reply'd,
Nor judge so rashly, e'er my strength is try'd,
In me the emblem of a leek is seen,
White though my head be turn'd, my tail is green.
But whither does the muse erroneous stray,
By tales of love diverted from her way?
Gardiner upbraids my ears with cold neglect,
And from the muse demands his due respect.
Forbear, great man, restrain thy flowing gall,
Wherefore on me do all these censures fall?
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When thy own Young forgets to sing thy praise?
What shall a patriot lose his due reward,
Because ill us'd by one ungrateful bard?
Your pardon, sir; the reasoning I allow,
And with these honours deck your lofty brow
If size and stature raise a deathless name,
How vast your praise, how bulky is your fame!
Without a rival, sir, the streets you tread,
Thou greatest, wittiest man, now Tadloe's dead;
Since that huge atlas fell, you reap alone
The thanks of all the paviers in the town.
Alluding to the following epigram,
When Tadloe walks the streets, the paviers cryGod bless you, sir; and throw their rammers by.
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Another college prince, and tyrant sot,
To G**d**r next in learning and in size,
Somewhat more honest, and almost as wise;
His sanguine cheeks with deep vermilion glow,
With antient-british blood his veins o'erflow,
His country's native ire inflames his breast,
And hostile leeks nod dreadful on his crest,
Like proud Plinlimmon's height he seems to move,
And his broad shoulders prop the clouds above.
Heaven to this man unusual vigour gave,
To rule a college obstinately brave,
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And stubborn as the rocks, from whence they came;
Hard to restrain, by nature prone to rage,
No common arm their fury can asswage,
So much with sparks of vengeance they abound,
They knock opposing barge-men to the ground,
And like a tempest hurl destruction round.
Fain would I next great D---son rehearse,
And greet him with new honours in my verse;
O! might I call him by that awful name,
Which his soul covets, and his merits claim!
How would it touch the cockles of my heart
In ordinance to see him bear his part,
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And Golgotha receive another star.
And must be own'd for college business fit,
Oe'r passive fellows skill'd to domineer,
And grant to few the favour of his ear.
From Brazen and D---e he learnt the arts
To pick their pockets, while he gains their hearts
To be ador'd for breaking all their laws,
And tyrannize with safety and applause.
So romish priests esteem and reverence gain,
By bidding penance, and imposing pain;
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And in raw backs and aking bones rejoice.
But ah! within our walls dissention reigns,
And modern feuds disturb the laurel'd plains,
Pert upstart patriots with rebellious pride,
Spurn at their Heads, and Golgotha deride,
In bold confederate clubs and plots engage,
And youthful whims oppose to thoughtful age;
Each day the hoary sages sink in pow'r,
And Presidents and Provosts sway no more;
With grumbling tories factious whigs combine,
And against D---n---n perversely join,
Resolv'd to baulk him of the darling pow'r,
And antient rights of Charlot's successor.
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M*th*r do thou my flagging verse inspire,
Instruct the muse thy praises to rehearse,
And with thy shining deeds adorn my verse:
Do thou; for surely none besides can tell,
No mortal knows thy merits half so well.
And sullenly reject the proffer'd praise,
Content to wither in obscure retreat,
And unobserv'd, in plenty drink and eat,
O'er aukward college pedants to preside,
With private grandeur and monastick pride,
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And nod, like eastern tyrants on their throne.
Nor dost thou only chuse this mongrel Life,
Blest with collegiate honours and—no wife;
Sundry besides, thy brethren of the gown,
Like thee, despising fame and wide renown,
Preferring stated meals and frequent prayers
To worldly bustles, and domestick cares,
Within their humble cells indulge the spleen,
Men never talk'd of, and but rarely seen,
With their obsequious fellows they debate,
In their own cloysters, all affairs of state,
Con over Mist, and Shatter once a week,
And by their love of kings and statesmen speak,
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And learn from them to censure and approve.
Others there are—but studious of her fame,
Fain would the muse conceal her mother's shame,
Sore loath I am to speak the mournful truth,
That modern Heads corrupt the letter'd youth,
That bold fanaticks, full of sturdy zeal
For Brunswick's house, disturb our commonweal,
Grave loyal wretches, of their monarch proud,
To college-pow'r advanc'd, infect the croud,
Through these unhappy walls their poison spread,
And strike ev'n Golgotha it self with dread.
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No spot of earth is from pollution free,
Briers and thorns infest the richest ground,
And tares amongst the choicest wheat are found;
The fruitful Nile destructive monsters breeds,
And ev'n Bellositum pruduces weeds.
And in thy numbers brand each hated name,
Each bold apostate son, who durst disgrace
With heterogeneous thoughts his venerable race.
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And Cranmer, ever with abhorrence nam'd;
Here Latimer his novel doctrines taught,
And Ridley here for gospel licence fought:
Presumptuous prelates! could they hope to live,
And o're the ruins of the church survive?
How could they dare oppose such mighty odds,
And rashly strive with Rome's unnumber'd Gods?
Within these walls a sacrifice they fell,
And in their death forestall'd the pains of hell.
From hence, degenerate from the common throng,
Ev'n men of sense and probity have sprung;
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Of modern reasoning whigs the boasted head;
Here Hales of ever-memorable fame,
And Chillingworth acquir'd a deathless name;
Here Kennet first disclos'd his god-like soul,
And Hough a tyrant's pleasure did controul;
Marsham from hence his piercing genius drew,
And Lloyd in these abodes immortal grew.
Here Guibbons late, with Æsculapian skill,
Preserv'd more lives, than modern empericks kill,
Friend to mankind; and to his healing art
Join'd candour and benevolence of heart,
On health and learning still vouchsafes to smile,
And shines the great Machaon of our isle.
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And Steele with whiggish wit prophan'd the times;
Here Tickel sung the charms of opening peace,
And Young explor'd the mines of Rome and Greece;
Philips and Smith the Christ-church wits disgrace,
And Addison pollutes the Maudlin race.
From our old track whole colleges depart,
And preach new doctrines with Hoadleian art,
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And Wadham's sons to Oriel led the way,
Exeter follow'd; and in some degree,
Scarce is a college from infection free.
Ev'n Brunswick joins, and sows the pregnant seed,
With ill-tim'd gifts, maliciously divine,
Shakes our aversion to his German line,
Shews that his breast with love of science burns,
Smiles on our hate, and good for ill returns.
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Divert thy song, and nobler objects chuse:
With more exalted themes thy numbers grace,
In more exalted numbers sing the place,
Where G---l with unspotted virtue shines,
And Att---ry form'd his great designs.
O! prelate, of the church thou burning light,
Through all thy sufferings eminently bright,
In vain ill-fortune strives to make thee less,
Great in thy self, but greater in distress;
Transfus'd into thy soul by power divine,
Laud's active zeal and Wolsey's spirit shine,
Like them pursued by a corrupted age,
And sacrific'd to wild, fanatick rage,
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And in exotick climates broach thy zeal;
How in thy praise could I dilate my song!
But fate and rigid laws restrain my tongue.
Our stately rising buildings set to view,
Say how we furbish old and model new,
Our theatres, musæums, printing domes,
And libraries replete with folio tomes,
Our greasy kitchens and large halls extol,
And vaulted cellars stor'd with double Coll,
Our tow'ring steeples, painful to behold,
Our roaring bells, and altars daub'd with gold;
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And bog-houses like palaces arise.
For James how ready to devote our lives;
Our hierogliphick almanacks describe,
Our Envoy-beadle and addressing tribe;
How treason gives pretensions to a place,
And loyalty escapes by Acts of Grace;
How Fiddes for the church fatigues his quill,
And how the devil looks o'er Lincoln still.
It is well known that the reverend Mr. Meadow-court, fellow of Merton college, was obliged to plead his majesty's Act of Grace, for drinking his majesty's health.
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And learning triumphs under Mather's care:
From M***ley's hideous looks, by day and night,
Leud strumpets fly, and chasten in his sight,
Shock'd at his form, they curb their itching blood,
And naughty children promise to be good;
Aw'd with his cloven feet and scare-crow face,
The athiest shudders, and grows rich in grace,
No more his dreadful execrations vents,
But owns there is a devil and repents.
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And their great names in mighty numbers sing;
For sure no bards abound with thoughts so bright,
Nor with the genius of our poets write.
To prove this truth, seraphick Sternhold read,
And Withers, both the right Oxonian breed,
On Sherley's comick pages cast your eyes,
And hear how Settle's lofty strains surprize;
Our modern wits with equal lustre shine,
Angelick Cotes and Catcot the divine,
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Which rhime and equal-measur'd verse disclaims,
What numbers would such rugged sounds compose,
Which even offend the ear, pronounced in prose?
With the same ease I could, in verse sublime,
Make a Welsh pedigree harmonious chime,
Or put the Russian army into rhime.
Unhappy bards! but others may be found,
Whose gentle names in verse melodious sound,
Bacon in easy numbers glides along,
And Trap and Wharton melt upon the tongue,
Egregious wits! and criticks both sublime,
Whose kindred talents so exactly chime,
48
Which happy genius more divinely flows;
In this alone the former does excel,
That Trap writes most, but Wharton writes as well.
But above all, record the female race,
The reigning Toasts and beauties of the place,
Whether in Bullock's-lane they chuse to rove,
Or Kidney-hall, the soft retreat of love,
Their shining virtues and their charms rehearse,
And vindicate their names from Strephon's verse.
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And sordid riches our affections blind,
Some squeamish fops, fantastically nice,
For virtue sigh and puke at modish vice;
Others for titles languish and would scorn
Ev'n beauty's goddess, if obscurely born.
By no such borrow'd charms, nor spurious arts,
Our Oxford ladies reign o'er youthful hearts;
In their own native, naked charms they shine,
Smug chamber-maids and sempstresses divine,
Smart laundresses on Saturdays so clean,
And bed-makers on every day between,
The beggar's off-spring to the parish left,
And college bastards of their sires bereft,
Nymphs without smocks our tender hearts surprize,
And deities in rags attract our eyes.
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How to thy ashes shall the muse be just?
For to what member of Apollo's race
Did ever she deny the soft embrace?
What slighted lover or despairing swain
Can of her wrongs or cruelty complain?
No jilting tricks nor coying arts she knew,
But to the amorous kind was ever true,
To every sighing youth resign'd her charms,
And bless'd, at easy rates, his longing arms.
Mourn, all ye sons of learning, Saby's fate,
In verse and prose the mighty loss relate:
With tropes and figures, Cotes, embalm her name,
Wharton, in grateful metre chaunt her fame,
51
And lavish o'er her grave the flowery spring;
In streams of blood let conscious Isis flow,
Let Charwell swell the sympathetick woe,
Let Christ-church Tom her loss vociferous roar,
Tom, who ne'er mourn'd for aught but kings before;
In hymns of woe let every college join,
In social grief let every voice combine,
Let every heart with bursting sighs approve
Our sorrow as diffusive as her love.
We bilk'd our founders and defy'd their laws,
Those grave old blockheads, whose religious pride
Would quench love's flame and check old nature's tide,
52
And make mankind unnaturally chast.
Reliev'd by her from these imperious chains,
We knew the sweets of love, without the pains,
Clasp'd to her bosom, every college round
The joys of marriage, without marriage, found;
Spight of their musty statutes all the night
We roll'd in bliss and revel'd in delight.
Amidst these transports, to our joys a slave,
Death præmaturely snatch'd her to the grave;
That rank disease that fierce corroding flame,
Which takes from Venus its venereal name,
Siez'd on her bloom, polluted all her charms,
And with contagion fill'd her circling arms,
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And with her life could only be asswag'd.
Dread foe to love! of human ills the worst!
Thou sorest plague, with which mankind is curst,
In distant climes, amongst the savage kind,
O! hadst thou ever, ever been confin'd,
Content the wild Barbarian to defile,
Nor with thy breath prophan'd the British isle.
Say, muse, in strains of elegiack woe,
What dire effects from such disasters flow,
That the precaution'd reader may beware,
And, conscious of the mischiefs, shun the snare.
Soon as it pierces with its subtle dart,
The coast of love, that weak unguarded part,
54
Of pungent sores, and sharp nocturnal pains,
His nerves are all relax'd, his eyes grow dim,
And rigid aches torture every limb,
His hot envenom'd blood corrupts within,
And loathsome ulcers stain his fading skin;
At length his nose dismantled sinks away,
His flesh turns rotten and his bones decay;
Too late repentance comes! and pills too late!
Nor can ev'n Misaubin reverse his fate;
Living, his wholesome friends avoid his sight,
And dying he pollutes the realms of night.
Against this ill (to vary from my tale)
But two specifick remedies prevail;
Virtue is one and purity of heart;
But if the flesh subdues the better part,
55
(No doubt the reader guesses what I mean)
That modern rare device, whose injur'd name
Is grown opprobrious, though it covers shame;
Without this guard, if my advice prevail,
On venal joys you never will regale;
Then against fire-ships you may stand the test,
And trust the warmest nymph—probatum est.
So ancient warriours, buckled up in steel,
Laugh'd at the drubbings, which they could not feel.
Poor Coburne's fate these sad reflections drew,
O! most unhappy, hapless nymph, adieu.
Tormenting loss! too grievous for the mind!
If gentle Dutton were not left behind;
56
On her soft bosom intermit our grief,
The painful hours in soft endearments waste,
And in our present joys forget the past.
Hail charming fair! O! may'st thou ever prove
Free from the bane and pestilence of love;
Long may'st thou live, a soft luxurious life,
By turns of twenty colleges the wife,
With charms unfading glut the studious swains,
The favourite Toast of all our Oxford plains.
On this delightful subject, big with praise,
How could the muse prolong her wanton lays?
Unnumber'd beauties, equally divine,
Attract her eyes, and in her fancy shine.
57
And Shephard blesses all the Cambrian race;
Crassa with luscious beauties charms the sight,
And melts in greasy volumes of delight;
In Tatham's kitchen as she basts the meat,
The Maudlin smarts their tender vows repeat;
Oft as she plies the sauce-pan in her hand,
The Lincoln wits in silent rapture stand;
Oft as with whirling arms she winds the jack,
They suck the dewy moisture from her neck,
The savoury odors from her lips they kiss,
And wallow in a dripping-pan of bliss.
Forgive me fair ones, who remain unsung,
Sound and unsound, ye tribe of old and young;
58
Would swell my verse beyond an epick strain;
Each college stew a volume would require,
And Bl---re in the tedious task would tire.
Henceforth, ye sons of Cam, presumptuous race,
No more with us contend for age or place;
At length confuted, quit the learned field,
And to your rival the precedence yield.
In times remote, before the Cam was known,
Our Isis rear'd her head and gain'd renown;
Arts now forgot her temples did adorn,
And flourish'd e'er the Stagyrite was born;
Compar'd with her, the Græcian state gives way,
And Athens was a school of yesterday.
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But with you sister the dispute give o'er,
Let Clarke to learning all pretensions quit,
And captious Bentley to Delaune submit,
No more let Newton his discoveries boast,
But own himself in greater Shippen lost,
Let Hoadley to Sacheverel yield the prize,
Nor against Potter in contension rise.
Hail, honour'd madam! hail for arts renown'd,
Through ev'ry age with ivy garlands crown'd,
Who from a thousand bubbies, never dry,
Dost with pure milk a thousand babes supply,
Great Britain's mother-nurse! accept these lays,
Which an adopted son in duty pays;
Who oft has heard, with conscious grief and shame,
Licentious wits insult thy reverend name,
Who oft has seen them, with indignant rage,
Laugh at thy silver hairs and wrinkled age;
Urg'd by these wrongs, in her dear mother's cause,
Weak as she is, the muse officious draws,
And in these grateful lines attempts to shew
What publick honours to her name are due;
Resolv'd at least on daring wings to play,
And to some greater genius point the way.
Through ev'ry age with ivy garlands crown'd,
Who from a thousand bubbies, never dry,
Dost with pure milk a thousand babes supply,
Great Britain's mother-nurse! accept these lays,
Which an adopted son in duty pays;
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Licentious wits insult thy reverend name,
Who oft has seen them, with indignant rage,
Laugh at thy silver hairs and wrinkled age;
Urg'd by these wrongs, in her dear mother's cause,
Weak as she is, the muse officious draws,
And in these grateful lines attempts to shew
What publick honours to her name are due;
Resolv'd at least on daring wings to play,
And to some greater genius point the way.
Mean while this verse shall consecrate my name,
And ev'n with Blackmore's Alfred vye for fame,
The present age my labours shall reward,
And Britain stile me the religious Bard;
The future age a sumptuous pile shall raise,
And croud the wall with monumental praise;
Erect above shall stand the marble bust,
Beneath, the sacred urn shall hold my dust,
Fame on the right her constant watch shall keep,
And Alma on the left dejected weep,
Wreaths and festoons the labour'd stone shall grace,
And this inscription fill the middle space.
“Rear'd at the publick cost, this stately shrine
And ev'n with Blackmore's Alfred vye for fame,
The present age my labours shall reward,
And Britain stile me the religious Bard;
The future age a sumptuous pile shall raise,
And croud the wall with monumental praise;
61
Beneath, the sacred urn shall hold my dust,
Fame on the right her constant watch shall keep,
And Alma on the left dejected weep,
Wreaths and festoons the labour'd stone shall grace,
And this inscription fill the middle space.
“Does the choice ashes of a bard confine,
“Who, in the first prevailing George's days,
“Tun'd his old British harp to Alma's praise,
“And, in a course of bold scholastick rhimes,
“Dar'd all the insults of those factious times.
“While marble can endure, this hallow'd stone
“Shall guard his dust and make his virtues known;
“When that decays, his fame shall still survive,
“And in the duteous work for ages live;
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“For then the world's eternal doom is near.
“Reader, from Oxford if you chance to come,
“Shed a few tears o'er his selected tomb,
“Nor ask his name, but be content to know,
“That for a pious wit your grateful sorrows flow.
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A Letter of Thanks
FROM THE University of Cracow, To their Sovereign.
[_]
POSTSCRIPT. The following Verses having been transmitted to me, I hope it will not be thought improper to annex them to the preceeding POEM.
With the Doctors and Masters, all to a Man,
Assembled in form, have sent trusty Ned Whist,
(The last enroll'd slave in our Almanack-List)
With orders to give you, sir, to understand
That a letter sign'd G---ge is safe come to hand,
Which having been over and over perus'd,
Your present was near upon being refus'd;
64
We, moved thereunto by reasons of State,
Came at length to agree one and all, 'twou'd be better
To take it, and seem thus to thank you by letter.
This done, sir, we hope you are herewith content,
Since farther than this, nothing by us is meant.
We scorn to profess the least loyal affection
To one, who against our will gives us protection;
Neither wish we, nor pray we for Princes at home,
Having sent all our prayers, and our wishes to Rome.
Assure yourself therefore, you always shall find
We ever shall hate you, be you ever so kind;
In token hereof our names we conceal,
But send you these presents under our Seal.
Sealed in the convocation-house, with the
common seal of the university, this 19th
day of May, 1724.
FINIS.
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