Original poems on several subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Look with discerning eye around,
What else but vanity is found,
From the imperial palace, down
To the mean cottage of the clown?
Mankind pursue, with endless strife,
Lur'd by false estimates of life,
Those objects which, when they o'ertake,
Them more supremely wretched make.
And why? let all for once attend,
Without the means, we seek the end.
Seek Happiness, but her in vain,
Unknown to Virtue, would attain.
She's paradise, divinely stor'd;
Virtue's, to guard, the flaming sword;
A flaming sword to all who would,
Without her suff'rance, bold intrude.

But who her sacred steps pursue,
Them she conducts, and welcomes too.

But this fine scene for moral wit
Will bards of graver studies fit.
Subjects less solemn far we chuse,
That suit the laughter-loving Muse,
Suit aptly the satiric pen,
The whims and caprices of men.

These gain'd immortal praise to Young,
In his keen pointed numbers sung.
Who would the rash attempt avow,
To pluck the laurels from his brow,
Those subjects, impotent, explore,
Which he exhausted long before?
No; let the passion, love of fame,
Be universal as his name;
While we, self-borne the daring Muse,
No borrow'd wings would meanly use.

What follies yet remain unsung,
From vanity and dulness sprung,
Though oft Pope's justly-kindled rage
Made such the laughter of the age?
A few now would the muse select,
In all their native trappings deckt,

As through life's wayward paths men plod,
Or skip, extravagantly odd.
No characters unknown we draw,
Which mankind living never saw.
Not Nature just in ev'ry part,
But transcripts of the writer's heart.
Vagaries of a troubled brain,
Ineffably absurd and vain.
Wild thoughts, made wilder by his pen,
Stuff'd into characters of men.
As Rome's great satirist describes
A monster form'd from various tribes,
With which his reader's eye he feasts,
Women and fishes, fowls and beasts.
Thus C---'s frantic pencil draws,
Exalts with blame, damns with applause.
Nor strange, himself so little man,
So little human in his plan.
In branding him we break no laws,
But thus assert the public cause.
The public he abuses, who
First fed him, and preserves him so.
With thankless and ungrateful pen,
Styles his supporters worst of men.

As the fell snake that bosom stings
Which it to life and motion brings .
Censure on him we justly call
A panegyric pass'd on all.
Satire should ever build on truth,
Absurd, else, senseless, and uncouth.
Without truth we to gain eclat,
Ourselves, but not mankind, may draw.
Without truth satirists are sure
Deeply to wound, but never cure.

Far other features we would sketch,
Than men from mere idea fetch.
On those alone our numbers flow,
Which from examples well we know,
Living examples, ev'ry where
That boldly in our faces stare.

Authors, among this motly race,
Possess no undistinguish'd place;
Authors, howe'er bred up in schools,
Still of mankind the greatest fools.

Blockheads will ever swarm below,
But why should print proclaim them so?
Reptiles beneath the ground should crawl,
Else trodden under foot by all.

But with disguise's artful veil,
That we may persons still conceal,
No one whole character we chuse,
Though form'd by Nature, not the Muse.
To pick out objects wrong or right,
To show our malice and our spite,
This not, on Satire's lib'ral plan,
Were, Flaccus-like, to laugh at man,
But, for the rag on dunghills roll'd,
Like dainty cinder-wives to scold.
We, in offending justly checkt,
From various characters select,
That, blended artfully, we may
Heighten'd the ridicule survey.
Men, things offensive to the eye
With much disgust, though single, spy;
But, if in heaps collected, who
Would not the strongest loathing show?
These, into parts resolv'd again,
To various owners appertain.

Thus artists show the curious work,
Where springs aud wheels complexly lurk,
Though, as one master's labour shown,
Each claims a workman of its own.
Mankind here, as if call'd by name,
May each his darling foible claim;
Just as the cap befits him, wear,
Nor owning, call the Muse severe.

Nor we less cautious shall describe
That mongrel breed, the author-tribe;
Though small compassion often shown,
No individuals shall be known:
For such, though they impos'd our task,
Humanity implores the mask.
A task, that ever would begin,
Were we to take all rhymers in.
Rhymers, who, for a verse or two,
Think immortality their due.
Vain thought! that words dispos'd to chime,
Should therefore hit the true sublime.
A pigmy, perch'd upon Parnassus,
Still justly for a pigmy passes.
A dunce in numbers, never rose
Above a very dunce in prose.

When will that blissful æra come,
When Dulness shall be ever dumb,
When desks shall authors' works confine,
Immortal there content to shine,
Not for a moment dragg'd to light,
Then plung'd in everlasting night?
Soon Reputation dies; yet man
Would shorten still its narrow span;
Before the spade performs its task,
Or worms their fated banquet ask,
To Fame's bar'd heart the quill apply,
And straight poetically die.
Foul suicide, without dismay
Calm perpetrated ev'ry day!
Gibbets may rot, and axes rust,
If each self-judg'd bravado must,
In bold defiance of all law,
Upon himself in secret draw.

But while, my Lord, the satire hits
Those little rhyme-engender'd wits,
Applied by Candour's voice to you,
It forms but your elogium due;
As objects, when the sun-beam's near,
Some dark, some luminous, appear;

Or as fam'd lanterns, aptly made,
Light here diffuse, and there a shade.
To dumb Oblivion's long long night
To consecrate such bards how right!
For thus, with glory and renown
Unfading we true genius crown.

This, and whatever else occurs relating to a late celebrated bard, was finished a considerable time before his decease: a piece of information the reader may think necessary, to break the force of an obvious remark.

POETICAL CHARACTERISTICS;

OR, An ESTIMATE OF THE ADVANTAGES OF RHYMING.

IN THREE CANTOS.

Navem agere ignarus navis timet: abrotonum ægro
Non audet, nisi qui didicit, dare: quod melicorum est
Promittunt melici: tractant fabrilia fabri:
Scribimus indocti doctique poëmata passim.
Hic error tamen et levis hæc insania quantas
Virtutes habeat, sic collige: vatis avarus
Non temerè est animus; versus amat, hoc studet unum;
Detrimenta, fugas servorum, incendia ridet;
Non fraudem socio, puerove incogitat ullam
Pupillo; vivit siliquis et pane secundo:
Militiæ quanquam piger ac malus, utilis urbi.
Hor.

CANTO I.

While others make strange fuss about
Statesmen with places, or without ,
Damn men and measures, good or bad,
And run politically mad;
While Past'ral Life is taught to rage
With all the rancour of the age,
And C--- meets his match indeed
On his own southern side of Tweed,
(His own blows on himself recoil'd),
By Genius and by Valour foil'd :
Far other subjects offer now,
To fillet round the poet's brow;

The laugh, the banter, or the sneer,
Are the severest things sound here.

Say, Muse, ah! whither art thou fled,
Scarce known save for the mighty dead,
The mighty dead (ye proud, forgive)
That more emphatically live,
Than whom a mere mechanic breath
Grossly distinguishes from death?
Say, gentle native of the skies,
With inspiration-beaming eyes;
With step thy pensive frame that tells,
And brow on which complacence dwells;
In what devout retirement now,
Parent of thought sublime, art thou?
To what sequester'd island hied,
Lash'd by some ocean's ambient tide,
Where Nature wears her gentlest form,
Unconscious of the surly storm;
Where Seasons but of milder sort
On airy roseate pinions sport,
Presenting to the ravish'd sight
Each chosen object of delight:
Where, through the groves and lilied plains,
Simplicity primæval reigns,

Blythe-ey'd Contentment at her side,
And Plenty, like a blooming bride;
Love, with her temples wreath'd with flow'rs,
Sighing in amaranthine bow'rs;
Music, with rapture in her look,
Breathing soft airs beside the brook;
And Contemplation, slowly stept,
In dark-brown shades her dwelling kept.
Where, blended in sweet social cares,
Which each with equal transport shares,
Some happy race, by Heav'n design'd
The full perfection of their kind,
On Nature's gifts spontaneous live,
They grateful, as she free to give.
There, with thy light aëreal train,
That trip with nimble foot the plain;
Explore contemplative the grove,
Or loiter in the green alcove;
In Inspiration's magic cell,
With Silence handmaid meet to dwell.
There, till Britannia learns the art
No more from Nature to depart,
Much shock'd with Vice, and tir'd of Folly,
With meek-ey'd, calm-brow'd Melancholy,

On beds of myrrh, edg'd round with flow'rs,
To pass the pleasure-gliding hours.

How many at thine altars bend,
And much phantastic zeal pretend,
Thou to indulge their fond desire,
To touch their torpid lips with fire;
Then, though unheard they bend the knee,
Dare inspiration boast from thee?
Though thy kind dwelling, now and then,
Among the gentler sons of men,
(Shenstones, whose laurel never dies)
Thy native mansion is the skies.
Angels behold thee, and admire,
Caught from thy living glance their fire.
Tun'd to the majesty of praise,
While millions their loud voices raise,
Trembling beneath thy magic hands
The sapphire harp angelic stands.
Martyrs, and saints, and cherubs throng,
To hear the rapture-warbled song;
Jehovah (all his might proclaim,
August, unnutterable name!)
From his high throne eternal bends,
And to the hymn sublime attends;

Heav'n's battlements re-echo round,
And distant worlds return the sound.
Shall mortals then to thee look up,
Just reeling from the midnight-cup,
Just from the brothel's haunts impure,
Thy aid, O goddess! to procure?
Thy laurels flourish not, but where
They breathe a pure untainted air;
Suck the best juices of the soil,
That fertile bears with little toil.
Wave, Satire, then thy fiercest pen,
To chastise those licentious men;
Send them degraded—to the plough,
The circlet twisted from their brow.

Because some striplings write and read,
A most important brag indeed;
So bearded over is their chin,
That barbers weekly are call'd in;
Because to manhood's size grown up,
To revel o'er the midnight-cup;
Shuffle the cards with much address,
And study—at a game of chess;
Look virgins boldly in the face,
And fearlessly appoint the place:

Because a little dust they raise
At balls, assemblies, routs, and plays;
Fir'd by some fair-one's sparkling eyes,
Say something wit-like by surprise;
Their doughty consequence to show,
For trifles can outrageous grow;
Sneer at the consecrated Book,
And swear with unconfounded look:
Because our classic sons of same
They intimately know—by name,
And haply can, with cadence neat,
A line from Pope or Gay repeat:
Such scholars, gentlemen, and wits,
(And doubtless such it well befits)
Their vanity straight takes the hint,
They write, and must appear in print.
Say, what the subjects most they chuse?
Subjects well worthy of the Muse,
Themselves, their noble selves, that seem
First in their own sublime esteem.
To give invention play uncheck'd,
Thus they the poorest themes select.
To point out Nature's every flaw,
Their own sad flimsy portraits draw,

From whence alone mankind may see,
Eve ate of the forbidden tree.

The freedom of the press we rate
As the Palladium of the state;
That test so much renown'd in story,
That bulwark of Britannia's glory.
But often too its value's paid,
What blockheads hence are daily made;
What rhyming coxcombs, that requir'd
Ere silenc'd ev'n a Pope inspir'd;
Pope, who of dunces stoop'd to sing,
Though borne sublime on Homer's wing.
Thus nought of human good we know
Unmingled with its share of wo.
No blessing but its curse attends,
Mutual to thwart each other's ends.
Alas! Britannia's fairest fame
Is oft converted to her shame!
Her very strength and pow'r betray
Her wants and weakness every day!
What should her throne eternal make,
May it with dire convulsions shake!
But Heav'n, here let our murmurs rest,
Will order all things for the best;

On Wisdom make success attend,
And folly in misfortune end.

To shine a poet, you must be
A critic of no mean degree.
Sense, judgment, learning, knowledge, skill
Should ever wield the mighty quill.
The Muse and Contemplation dwell
In the same foliage-mantled cell;
Ever attach'd to one another,
Who wooes the one must woo the other.
The poet's pencil to employ,
Each should a quick nice taste enjoy;
Deep to discern, not take on trust,
The beautiful, sublime, and just;
With sudden sapient glance, disjoin
The spurious from the current coin;
With Kames's eye Lyncean view,
And pierce all Nature through and through.

Poets should, whether wrong or right,
See things in an uncommon light;
At will, change attitudes, sites, places,
And vary ornaments and graces;
With magic pow'rs (confin'd to them)
Turn the dim pebble to a gem;

In barren tracts bid roses bloom,
And rush-grown marshes breathe perfume;
Bid fairy scenes in deserts rise,
And endless Edens charm the eyes.

To be a poet, we require
The touch electrical of fire,
To vibrate on each tingling sense,
Enthusiastic, quick, intense;
A certain pleasing phrenzy known
To seraphs and the Muse alone.

To form the poet, Fancy ought
To swell and elevate the thought;
Waft us, on her excursive wings,
Above the vulgar range of things.
Who at the Muse's altar kneel,
Should ever exquisitely feel;
Through all Sensation's thrillings know
The keen extremes of bliss and wo.
The bard, in fine, should ever claim
A title to immortal fame,
The utile and dulce hit,
As scholar, gentleman, and wit.

How few, alas! in modern days,
On these erect their deathless praise,

A basis nothing e'er can shake,
Though cities fall, and mountains quake;
Though proud Ambition's trophies sink,
And tumble down Fate's dreadful brink;
Though all the labours of mankind,
And states themselves, a period find!
Thus Homer shot his noon-tide ray,
The sun that rul'd the Grecian day.
Thus, with the moon's auspicious light,
Virgil rose all serenely bright.
Thus Milton shines, beheld from far,
Britannia's first poetic star.

How few take Nature for their guide,
Seduc'd by wantonness and pride!
Boast, yet pathetic all the while,
The simple elegance of style!
That flow of unaffected thought,
Which charms at once, and comes unsought!

To squeeze out lifeless, cold, cold strains,
Through thick, thick skulls, from hard-bound brains;
To rack each faculty and pow'r,
For one stale couplet—in an hour;
(Poor verses that, like man and wife,
Together live in endless strife)

To clap most cruelly in fetters
A set of harmless simple letters,
That had, ah not disgrac'd by those,
Rang'd the extensive fields of prose;
To torture lines, much better single,
That their extremities may jingle;
Like sharp, shrill reed-pipes from the marsh,
To squeak most musically harsh:
Thus to make sounds, with bold pretence,
Pass with the gaping croud for sense,
As, deck'd in plumes of gaudy hue,
The jackdaw would be peacock too;
These patch up (well Reviewers know it)
In hodiernal phrase, a poet.
Thus too, with sacrilegious hands,
Boldly transgressing the commands,
To be in estimation had,
They rob the treasures of the dead.
But sure, of pilferers accurst,
The literary thief's the worst.
Not from mankind alone he steals,
And meanly the base act conceals;
His theft to Heav'n itself extends,
For Genius from the skies descends.

The servile plagiary is then
The robber both of gods and men.

Such rhyming mendicants for fame,
Purloiners of another's name;
Such dwarfs, some men of stature greet,
That hobble on poetic feet;
Such glow-worms, in dark corners met,
That twinkle—when the sun is set;
Harpies, where-e'er the laurel hangs,
Hov'ring around with outstretch'd fangs;
Such reptiles, each hoots as he passes,
Creeping up belly-wise Parnassus;
Such wretched tackers to of verse,
Sacred to man's—celanda pars;
Such poets of mechanic race,
Like locusts swarm in ev'ry place;
Beneath no fear, restraint, or awe,
In spite of common sense and law,
In spight of Nature, Taste, and Kames,
Damn to eternity their names.

Such fancy Poetry a trade,
Like shoes on lasts their verses made;
And, like the coarse ill-fitted shoe,
Indeed most stiff and awkward too.

A trade it is; but to practise,
You must serve 'prentice in the skies.
Else, though together words you link,
Like ill-match'd parish-bells to clink;
(The woful dirge that dreary tolls
Oblivion to such tuneful souls)
Though, now and then, a phrase compound
Lifts up the unmajestic sound;
Though scraps of wit, and shreds of sense,
The reader meets—and knows from whence;
Though Fancy glimmers, here and there,
Like meteors through the troubled air;
Though, half in rubbish hid, a gem
Twinkles—with lustre not from them;
Though, sometimes in a feeble spring,
Imagination spreads her wing;
Though haply, gazing many an hour,
Up starts a solitary flow'r,
Reflecting beauty on the whole,
From Pope or Dryden's garden stole;
Though these as miracles surprise,
And for a moment charm the wise;
Like old cloaths patch'd with purple glare,
And make the idiot rabble stare;

Yet absent Genius, to inspire
With her bright, equal, vital fire,
To wing the Fancy, warm the heart,
And all her magic to impart;
Such as in Gray's chaste finish'd lines,
Or Ogilvie's rich numbers shines;
Such manufacturers of verse
May strut, their betters to asperse;
Such may their maim'd and halting rhyme,
By counting their ten fingers, time;
The Age's standard models be,
For expletive sublimity;
With pretty tinkling, jingling numbers,
Charm the transported soul to—slumbers;
Quite inoffensive cordial strains,
To wakeful wit-molested brains:
But sure they ne'er can poets be,
Till mankind cease to hear and see;
Till Young poetically dead,
And Akenside no longer read.
Vainly we summon pen and ink,
To write, when we neglect to think.
Against the Muse we act high treason,
Nor rhyme our madrigals, nor reason.

Mankind this maxim should behold
Struck out in capitals of gold,
Adopted by Rome's first-rate wit,
Poeta nascitur, non fit.
In phrase vernacular to show it,
A poet must be born a poet.
Because this precept oft forgot,
(Alas! what standard rule is not?)
One might, by trade, on turtles dine,
But chuses starving with the Nine.
Another now of court-suit brags,
Now, struck with rhyme-fits, creeps in rags.
Some lay aside the manly tool,
Made tradesmen by poetic rule.
Some leave the plough, to lose their time,
And oft their senses too, in rhyme.
Others, in sacerdotal gown,
Affect poetical renown;
They prov'd their knowledge in the text,
And thus become mere blockheads next.
Others, beneath the three-tail'd wig
Full-spread, look most profoundly big;
Rostrums had eterniz'd their name,
Not by the Muse condemn'd to fame.

Others, because mankind they save
From fell diseases and the grave,
Think some great freedom they may use,
And murder with their quill the Muse.
Such, set on Pegasus's back,
In modern days a very hack,
As them not Lyttelton can stop,
Soon in oblivion's pit must drop.

The end of the First Canto.

Written in the year 1763.

Alluding to a very elegant little piece under the title of Genius and Valour, written in opposition to the famous Prophecy of Famine.

CANTO II.

Yes; men of fortune, let them rhyme,
Their greatest foe, to murder time.
Time a dead burden on them hangs,
Which they sustain with endless pangs;
And much the Muses oft avail
To lighten it when all things fail.
Satan might else boast some excuse,
His wiles and fiery darts to use.
That state from manly cares exempt,
Is his apology to tempt;
Near too his idleness akin,
And in demerit next, to sin.

The hapless wretch with riches curst,
Is of all menial slaves the worst,
If no ingenious liberal turn
Makes his expanded bosom burn;
If Science, bounteous but to few,
Opes not her treasures to his view;
Who cannot, disengag'd from pelf,
Retire well-pleas'd within himself.

To know, is but to pity him,
A slave to caprice and to whim.
A slave to indolence and sloth,
That eat him up, as cloaths the moth.
A slave to passion and to pride,
That whirl him down their rapid tide.
A slave to discontent and spleen,
With many a rash resolve between.
A slave to every modish folly,
To sullen moppish melancholy.
A most obsequious slave to Vice,
And her attendants, cards and dice,
Whose prize, still fools, or knaves dispute,
The bottle and the prostitute.
Let him then rhyme, and who can tell,
But you may save a soul from hell?

That there are some exceptions we
With you most cordially agree;
As, when the Winter sets in drear,
Haply some ever-greens appear:
Haply, in base and sordid mines,
Some vein of nobler metal shines.
Besides, these slaves of high degree
In many articles are free.

Freedom they nobly boast from both,
As tradesmen feel, their word, and oath;
But honour here, to souls refin'd,
Argues a low plebeian mind;
Though in mere trifles did you doubt them,
Zounds! 's death—they carry swords about them.
A slave in all things else, to be
Is just in some such instance free.

But to destroy that monster, Time,
As they claim privilege to rhyme;
Not freedom here alone they use,
They take much greater with the Muse.
So much averse to be confin'd,
No rule whate'er has force to bind.
For who would be a dupe to schools,
To men, who almost breathe by rules?
Horace of poetry may prate,
Mere Popes alone his maxims rate.
Poetic licence too apart,
Beyond ev'n credible they start.
Thus, faulty in some thing or other,
From one extreme we seek another.
The Stagyrite and Flaccus wrote,
And hence such numbers daily quote,

Because their scanty talents rose
No higher than such rules as those.
Their wit and precepts ne'er dispart,
That cramp'd by Nature, these by Art.
But would our new-light bards invent,
On forms less scrupulously bent,
Maxims that might their genius suit,
Boileau might doubtless then be mute.
For better, to the lib'ral man,
The ample than the bounded plan.
The Gallic critic writes, confin'd
By Nature, to the humankind;
Beyond her bourn our poets soar,
Traverse whole worlds, and ask for more.
Space, matter, time, obey the nod
Of each upstart poetic god.
His mouth each couplet-joiner opes,
And out fly strange unusual tropes,
Such figures, metaphors, and phrases,
As Nature he affronts who praises;
Such imagery, which right to relish,
Though meant to heighten and embellish,
You must, whate'er enjoyment hence is,
Don-Quixote-like, give up your senses;

Or with heroic nonsense burn,
See giants where but windmills turn.
But such employments aptly hit
Our great originals in wit,
Who much affected glee pretend,
That them we ne'er can comprehend.
“The critics ah! how grossly stupid!
“How crawls on earth the vile quadruped,
“While the strong eagle soars sublime,
“True bards but eagles wing'd by rhyme!
“How long will writers bless our land,
“Yet not one reader understand!
“Thy gifts, Heav'n, less to us dispense,
“Till men boast more than common sense.
“Beyond this vulgar test when learn'd,
“Then will our merit be discern'd.
“Ah! why were printing-presses plann'd,
“But mankind's ignorance to brand!
“To nothing doom them, Heav'n, once more,
“Till our scann'd works read o'er and o'er.”

Thus pray our bards, and adepts say,
That they successfully still pray;
We mean such adepts, as could see
Reviewers damn'd, and Dulness free.

But shall the critics them pass o'er,
Umpires decreed of human lore?
No; first let fishes seek the land,
And rivers in their courses stand.
Let needles first their poles reverse,
Nor morning-beams night's shades disperse.
The critic's truest, noblest fame,
Is to admonish and reclaim;
If they in vain this task discharge,
Then excommunicate at large,
Not from the kirk, but, with disdain,
From Immortality's bless'd fane.

That common origin whence springs
The fix'd propriety of things;
That particle of light divine,
By which we Reason would define;
Those ties, in essence and in name,
Which sentiment and language claim,
Objects of sense with thought combin'd,
And matter somehow link'd to mind:
In these the probable and just,
That have subsisted still, and must;
Or, in one word concentred all,
What aptly makind, Nature, call;

Such seems a standard too contracted
For bards, by no set rules directed,
Such rules as all mankind must own
To be supremely—theirs alone.
Nature too unembellish'd lies,
To ravish hypercritic eyes.
Her charms too vulgarly are seen,
Without the optic lens between.
No depths of study are requir'd,
Nor Plato-like to be inspir'd;
A heart's the requisite alone,
That Beauty's touches may be known,
Still faithful, as magnetic steel.
Are we, when Nature bids us feel.
But yet how mean to value that
Which occupies the clown's chit-chat?
Why those ideas entertain,
That ev'n to them appear so plain?
Why own sensations, that must strike
Philosophers and hinds alike?
This would Invention's rambles curb,
And Nature's order quite disturb;
To rustic life would Genius sink,
To such as only—feel and think,

Who, while Ambition's transport glows,
Ne'er nobly venture to—compose.

Hence, to our learned poets, this
Display of parts is all amiss,
Where simple thoughts, in simple phrase,
Support alone our claim to praise.
Where obvious lies to all the sense,
Unkept the judgment in suspense.
Where Commentators have no room,
To twist, conjecture, and presume.
Nature to them's wrapt in disguise,
Her therefore would our bards despise;
Yet a disguise not native to her,
But what absurdly they bestow her.
They seem somehow chagrin'd at Fate,
And would the world anew create.
For sure, their mysteries of strain
To some strange system appertain.
Their modes of thinking too refer,
Else Monthly Critics greatly err,
To some surprising race of men,
That ne'er were taught from Dryden's pen:
And, as all things from chaos rose,
That our vast universe compose;

So, into prompt belief to draw us,
Our bards begin too with a chaos.
Some nobler species (where or when
Are secrets to the sons of men)
May fathom all their depths, and be
More critically learn'd than we.
But here, would Heav'n grant my request,
Would I with ignorance be blest;
Yet thus (what wonders swarm below!)
Like Young, like Pope, like Blacklock, know.

Meantime, advantages accrue
To those their footsteps that pursue.
For thus their various hours ingross'd,
That ah! might otherwise be lost;
Such visits paid by Fancy round
To fairy scenes, and magic ground;
Thus stretch'd Imagination's wing
Beyond immensely—ev'ry thing;
Thus Memory (enrich'd by stealth)
Emptied of all her precious wealth;
Their passions thus by wonders caught,
Whirl'd round in vortices of thought;
Their elemental fire assuag'd,
And restless faculties engag'd:

The Muses—who so kind as they!
How cheated Satan of his prey!
What blessings from the great employ
Does hence Society enjoy!
All negatives we grant indeed,
As Parthians flying oft succeed.

Thus, had the Muse, with aspect bland,
And bays extended in her hand,
At Stella's birth presiding, said,
“Be thou a metre-loving maid,”
Stella had ne'er, to show her sense,
Shone at all womankind's expense;
Expos'd their hours quite run to waste,
Their ignorance, and want of taste;
Their little unaspiring aims,
Content with sorry housewife-names;
Within a narrow roof confin'd
The mighty powers of female mind;
Whose best exertions but imply
A jelly, custard, or a pie;
Mirrours and pictures rightly plac'd,
Or side-boards garnish'd out with taste;
Unknown, though with brocaded suit on,
To Hume, to Hutcheson, and Newton .

But not to Stella's case confin'd
The blessings of the Muses kind;
Around diffusively they spread,
Like currents from the fountain-head.
For some choice topics more, at large
Our task appointed to discharge,
To hail their glorious deeds who—sing,
In our next labour we shall bring;
No fact designedly suppressing,
To prove the Muse a public blessing.
Meantime, each wit of spirit, show it,
Dare to live poor and be a—poet.

The end of the Second Canto.

See the piece called Stella in this volume,

CANTO III.

Would you detain men from the stews?
Let them have commerce with the Muse.
Their passions, that no limits know,
Must ever have some stated flow;
If spent at all, a trifling care,
The manner how, or when, or where.
As ships from rocks secur'd by cables,
To keep mankind from gaming-tables,
Them fasten with poetic fetters,
Link'd from the alphabet of letters.
But that one almost daily views
Murders committed on the Muse,
Many might bid adieu to life,
Stabb'd ruthless by his brother's knife;
Our very roofs secure no more,
Our inmost chambers stain'd with gore.
Yes; at the altar force the Muse,
If she your modest suit refuse;
Then shall our wives and daughters be
From your attempts unhallow'd free.

That robbers may our roads desert,
And from our houses thieves depart;
Let mortals all their cunning use,
Freely to purloin from the Muse:
To rob, on purpose to conceal,
Her sons, is from herself to steal.
By taking thus, unknown they give,
Die faster, as they strive to live;
As, aiming to be more than frog,
Bursts the fam'd monarch of the bog.
Though steel strength from the magnet gains,
The magnet still its pow'r retains.
Yon blossom still remains unsoil'd,
Though haply of its honey spoil'd.

But for the harmless art of rhyming,
Men would be still offending Hymen.
Might stand accus'd (such W---'s use is)
Of some foul capital abuses.
Fly in the face of law and reason,
Guilty of heresy or treason;
Of which in Britain's annals we
So many dire examples see:
As heroes on the public road,
To ease poor misers of their load,

To free their brethren—with a knife,
From all the miseries of life;
Above their fellow-mortals be
Highly exalted—on a tree.

Rhyme on then, mortals; for in numbers
The love of mischief often slumbers;
The wicked thought oft melts away,
Cool-worded in a roundelay.
Obid and Teriff , harmless now,
Had broken else some plighted vow;
Stole from some too kind virgin more
Than they again could e'er restore.
Thank then the Muse, ye lordly brothers,
Ye loving aunts, and tender mothers;
That no fair friend meets a disaster,
Thank not the man, but poetaster.

Rhyme on then, mortals; and in verse
Your thoughts to climes remote disperse;
For, were they not abroad to roam,
What mischief might they do at home!
Had W--- thus, whose far other lass is,
But woo'd the Muse upon Parnassus,

He had preserv'd his wits and sense still,
Undamn'd by H---'s mighty pencil.
To show what lengths the human heart
May ah! from Rectitude depart,
Doom'd to the scorpion lash of fame,
Nor burst with consciousness and shame;
God said, in vengeance to his foes,
Let --- arise, and --- arose.

Rhyme on then, mortals; better rhyme,
Than suffer for some horrid crime.
Better lines meet, and jingle too,
Than muffled bells ding dang for you.
Better to chain a few poor letters,
Than you be clapt in iron fetters.
Better the Muse and you—forgot,
Than in a dungeon you should rot.
Thus, had not C--- spent his ire,
And timely flash'd away his fire;
This self-same C--- might have been
A robber on the highway seen;
A cut-throat, muffled up in gloom,
In some lone corner of a room;
Escaping thus those dreadful pangs
He feels who by his gullet hangs.

Forgive him then, thrice noble B---;
Newgate had claim'd a C--- mute.
Thee he revil'd, else with his fellows
Satan had sent him to the gallows.
Thee he mistook, but not himself,
A very cunning wary elf;
Self-preservation is a rule
First taught us in wise Nature's school;
So, from the halter to be free,
He drew his pen, and libell'd thee.
But censure from his pen we find
Turn'd into praise by all mankind.
Forgive him then, thrice noble B---;
Thou but half-prais'd, had he been mute.

Ryme on then, mortals; better rhyme,
Although you reach not the sublime,
Than at Temptation's mercy lie,
The veriest wretch beneath the sky;
Toss'd to and fro, howe'er you strive,
As whim, caprice, or passion drive.

Such ills had happen'd C---, and O!
The mighty author of Rodondo,
Had they not thus themselves amus'd,
And all their gall in rhyme effus'd.

Like ale in bottles they fermented,
Fate long their bursting kind prevented;
But Politics too fiery grew,
Out cork and froth abruptly flew.
Happy this tempest overblown,
Nought but the cork itself o'erthrown!
C--- mounts Pegasus, and strives
To prove—how fast the devil drives,
Drives on, such Satan's plan to mend all,
Through slander, obloquy, and scandal.
Gross wit's fierce elements engage,
A deep, dark Pitt confines their rage ,
What devastations else had been
In womens fair inclosures seen!

The Muse, in pity to mankind,
Strongly inspir'd each author's mind;
The simple, harmless bosom left,
For theirs of gentleness bereft:
And why? her choice from goodness rose,
Of evils twain the least she chose;
Permitted them to lash a few,
Who but receiv'd, perhaps, their due,
Rather than, from restraints set loose,
Mankind had felt worse than abuse.
Better to suffer from the pen,
Than from the hands of desp'rate men.
Bards rarely deal in swords or knives,
To wound our properties or lives.
The poet's curse, howe'er severe,
Seldom sinks deeper than the ear.

True; no exception here should be,
Let the same censure light on—me.
Thanks to the Muse, so little fame
Can sport malicious with my name,
That, through life's crouded path below,
I almost unobserv'd can go;
Though scarce for good distinguish'd, still,
Not once remarkable for ill.

Though not by infinite so good,
As God and Reason mean I should;
Yet am I not, my conscience clear,
Worse than to mankind I appear.
These, in the same proportion true,
Comprise my shame and glory too.
But, Reader, lest you should declare
Against the prim Confessor's chair;
No more, so your chagrin suspend,
Shall the pert egotist offend.
Yet, haply, men well-pleas'd may see
Their own apt portraitures in me.
For look with moral eye about,
All's mediocrity throughout,
Save, where we only it should find,
When fierce disputes inflame mankind:
When W--- wields his fell pen
O'er a strict set of harmless men,
Puffs, with proud, rage-inflated cheek,
And storms, to prove the spirit meek.

Rhyme on then, mortals; better rhyme,
Than waste in idleness your time;
Or, which is worse, from Discontent,
Your rage and spite on others vent.

Could Zalates employ his pen,
That most sloth-overcome of men;
Did not the chaste and virtuous Muse
To him her visit kind refuse;
Would he be late and early found
A constant plague to all around?
For had she, with auspicious pow'r,
But smil'd upon his natal hour;
His name for worth had been engrav'd,
And, haply, all our labour sav'd.

Each son of metre too may say,
Himself a compliment to pay,
He generously does all he can,
To help a worthy class of men;
Who else, in home-spun russet clad,
Might handle spades for daily bread.
In mines poetic all such [illeg.]ewers
Cut ample work out for Reviewers.
Such take the ready way to starve
Themselves, their—betters to preserve.
For mercy's sake, ye critics, then,
Spare, spare such charitable men!
O! graciously our spirits raise,
And throw us out a little praise,

On which our famish'd souls may live!
Blessed are they that freely give!
And Gratitude demands it too,
You should feed us for feeding you.
Good beef and pudding we afford,
And wines, to decorate your board;
Surely, you should return as good,
Fame, that light elemental food.
Thus mutual giv'n shall mutual last
The eleemos'nary repast.
But this sublime existence gives,
Who eats with faith, immortal lives;
Those grant, with much intestine strife,
Only a temporary life.
Doubtless, we need then no director,
To tell who's most the benefactor.

What complicated good the Muse
Loves through Creation to diffuse!
Not ills alone would she prevent,
To her philanthropy's extent;
But also, to each rank below,
Would blessings positive bestow!
Kings might their drawing-rooms decline,
To pay their visits to the Nine.

Commence for once (unsceptred) men,
And wield in harmless glee their pen.
Such only then would murder time,
With monarchs sure a simple crime;
Not slaughter, for a plume, or gem,
Millions, nor feel one pang for them;
Sprung from one common kindred clay,
Not less divinely form'd than they;
Though accident, mistake, or guilt,
With blood of murder'd thousands spilt,
(Oft for their punishment alone)
Have plac'd such monsters on a throne;
To rule mankind with iron rod,
And personate all things but—God!
The royal sons of Freedom here
Angels in human form appear.
George sills Britannia's throne, to show
Heav'n one anointed boasts below.

Rhyme on then, mortals; for by metre,
Our taste of life becomes the sweeter;
Though to some lowly cottage doom'd,
Unvisited by satraps plum'd,
Where courts the splendid ball ne'er form,
Far from proud grandeur and—the storm.

Each hour on downy pinion hence
Brings some new rapture to the sense.
Objects around we can arrange
Through one eternal joyous change;
Within our closets worlds explore,
And act all mankind o'er and o'er;
Extend life's poor contracted span,
Beyond the common bounds of man;
From sleep's ignoble periods take,
And more than vulgarly awake.
Though our apology how strong,
Howe'er sleep's stupor we prolong;
Since the kind Muse, till Morning beams,
Inspires us with ecstatic dreams,
Ecstatic dreams of—glorious things,
Claret, ragouts, and fiddle-strings!

“But who is this, to merit blind,
“Who dares to satirize mankind?
“What noble lineage can he boast?
“Has he travers'd Europa's coast?
“What mighty duke rang'd states about with,
“To—lose what virtue they set out with?
“In what school academic bred?
“In what fam'd system deeply read?

“Beneath what sophist taught to think,
“And at Pierian font to drink?
“At what Gamaliel's footstool plac'd,
“To learn the principles of taste?
“What fire Promethean has he stole,
“Not one bard-damning, but the whole?
“What critic, at the midnight-lamp,
“Taught him the true sublime to stamp?
“Has he, to be admir'd for art,
“Some rhyming-grammar got by heart?
“Has S---, in transports flung,
“Inform'd him how—to use his tongue?
“Has B---, mechanically fir'd,
“His thoughts possess'd, and brain inspir'd?
“Or W---, whose employ to parse is,
“Told him the secret to make verses?
“Say, what romantic child of fun
“With cobwebs would obscure the sun?”

Thou waspish elf, with spleen o'er-run!
Thou Dennis's poetic son!
Wouldst thou, vile pedant, make me vain?
Curse, arm'd with spectacles, my strain.
An arrow through my liver send?
Snatch quick thy standish, and commend.

That me effectually would raise
To Johnson's excellence of praise;
This would to ---'s bards link me,
Or lower than a Codrus sink me.
If good the verse, no matter though
The author were thyself below.
If bad, no character or station
Can rescue it from swift damnation.

Look round mankind, thou dolt, and see,
What fate waits bards of high degree,
If Genius ne'er effulg'd a ray
Around their laurel'd heads to play.
In what inglorious spot recluse
Now slumbers Dorset's once-fam'd muse?
Gone, Indies could not either save,
To moulder with him in the grave.
But Pope shall in his strains survive,
While taste or sense preserv'd alive;
Shall be—till wit allied to station,
The pride and glory of our nation.
Right facile were the task to show it,
How falsely Rochester dubb'd poet!
Hence, though escutcheons grac'd his name.
Expir'd soon his poetic fame;

Save that some still revere his muse
In that pure font of taste, the—stews.
But of Plebeian race behold,
Seldom oppress'd with too much gold,
Dryden, the standard of the age,
While mankind dotes on Virgil's page.
Though poor in pelf, by wretches sought,
How rich in sentiment and thought!
What veins of genius glorious shine
Through ev'ry massy sterling line!
What rays of wit flash all about!
What flow'rs of fancy bloom throughout!
These shall perpetuate his name,
The true-born son of classic fame,
When Wilmot's is remember'd not,
And Buckingham's himself forgot.

Nor strange thus various the requital
To men without and with a title.
Each son of Genius, nobly born,
Titles conferr'd surveys with scorn;
In Fame's bright lists his name inroll'd,
With all the pomp of letter'd gold,
Would he affect to mould a lord,
In some poor lumber-swept record?

Refrain, thou pseudo-critic, then,
To seek an author's rank with men.
If not in Fame's own temple plac'd,
Vainly his pedigree is trac'd,
Mean, with a coronet though crown'd,
Not with the Muse's laurel bound.
If dull and spiritless his strains,
Though blood of princes swell his veins,
Despis'd like Moevius shall he be,
Nor two full moons revolving see.
If but a spark his verse inspires,
Drawn living from celestial fires,
Though meanest styl'd of Adam's sons,
To whom obscure his lineage runs;
Yet shall the wonders of his rhyme
Triumph o'er dulness, spleen, and time;
Renew'd remembrance be his lot,
When ages have seen thee forgot.

Rhyme on then, mortals; for in measure
The miser may forget his treasure,
Forget his gilded scraps of pelf,
For once to recollect himself.
For what with rust time intersperses,
(Bless'd avarice!) to hoard up verses.

Thus doubly gen'rous, doubly kind,
Surpris'd would we the miser find;
Happy his riches to diffuse,
But parsimonious with his muse.
Better our passions thus transferr'd,
By whose excess men still have err'd,
Than, out of place alike, and time,
To swell into some actual crime.

Rhyme on then, mortals; for the Muse
Can much of sweet content infuse,
Though no phantastic gaudy plume,
Nods in the park, or drawing-room;
The brow from anxious cares unbind,
And throw a languor o'er the mind,
Akin, while fiercer raptures cloy,
To the mild equal touch of joy.
While, hurried on to worse from bad,
The giddy world around runs mad;
From wave to wave of folly tost,
Their helm and anchor, Reason, lost;
Sink down, abandon'd by relief,
O'erwhelm'd in the profound of grief;
On Sense's shallows headlong run,
By Passion's furious blast undone;

Or on the rocks of Anguish dash,
Which black Despair's swoln surges lash:
The Muse's sons, with placid gale,
Safely o'er life's rough ocean fail.
Ye mortals, then, through life that plod,
Whether you eat, or drink, or—nod,
To love or wine devote your time,
Keep the commandments all, and—rhyme.

Yet some slight inconvenience flows
From dealing in poetic—prose.
Some errours in our mode of thinking,
As well alas! as in our clinking.
For say, Mytholius, why so stupid,
Thus still to dote on Pan or Cupid?
To Phoebus still your suit direct,
When you are certain of neglect?
With knee inflected bow to Ceres,
Whose, than to hear, far other care is,
That care expressively we call
The care of millions—none at all?
You cannot guess how great my pain is,
Thus ever paying court to Venus;
A goddess found, nor here, nor there,
Unless, perhaps, found ev'ry where.

She dropt her girdle, which, you know,
Fell to each British fair below.
These gods and goddesses long since,
As Young and Akenside evince,
Have, like fall'n stars, no more to rise,
Resign'd the sceptre of the skies:
Beings that now despotic reign
But o'er the empire of your brain.
Perhaps, you your request prefer,
And trust me, here you cannot err,
As devotees have often ranted,
On purpose it should not be granted.
Nor could you sure, in this respect,
More proper godships e'er select.

But not Mytholius to be hard on,
Such indecorums we shall pardon;
For, without Cupid, Pan, and Phoebus,
What bard were not a downright hebes?
Them from the Pantheon fond they single,
Among their measur'd lines to jingle,
Lest the belief might be imply'd,
They ever pray'd to aught beside.
Fit punishment it seems moreo'er
On these divinities of yore,

Aiding poor brainless couplet-moulders,
To be dragg'd in by head and shoulders;
Dragg'd in, lest simple blame incurr'd,
To make a dull, dull line absurd;
In Heav'n for their long usurpation,
To suffer thus deserv'd damnation.

But other instances remain,
And claim admittance in our strain,
To prove, what ev'ry tyro knows,
From rhyming inconvenience flows.
One shall suffice now from a number,
Lest we our crouded page encumber.
And let that one our song conclude,
As the tir'd critic says it should.
And whom should bards affect to please,
But critics, fond of punch and ease?
Critics and bards, like man and wife,
Should carefully avoid all strife.

Some poets, anxious to be witty,
Only aspire to claim our pity;
For pity sure that man deserves,
Who from good manners grossly swerves.
And why? a genius to commence,
He gives up modesty and sense.

His verse requires (how just the scoff!)
Obscenity to set it off.
To please, howe'er he might intend,
His reader's ear, he must offend.
Such would erect a spotless name
On mankind's nakedness and shame;
On bogs, with impure rubbish fill'd,
A palace or a temple build.
Ingrafted on the bramble low,
Expect to find the nect'rine grow.

That hackney'd Muse is surely jaded,
Nor more by inspiration aided,
Who, to patch up a tatter'd fame,
And save from death a sinking name,
For succour flies to those poor arts
At which offended Virtue starts;
At which, with sweet becoming grace,
Fair Modesty must veil her face.
Genius far other helps requires,
Glowing from her own innate fires;
Still sailing, on no shallows caught,
Her own deep ocean vast of thought.
Oaks, but no support shrubs bestow,
Diffusive spread, majestic grow.

No borrow'd wing the eagle needs,
Self-pois'd to heav'n itself he speeds.
The taste of Britons each mistook,
Whoe'er penn'd an indecent book,
Or, like a mean infected elf,
Thought ev'ry Briton like himself.
Wretch! with foul pencil to abuse
The chastely-sentimental muse!
To pass, with judges too in them,
His paltry pebble for a gem!
Yet, as the bee with occult pow'rs
Sips sweets from amarescent flow'rs;
So in such writers, now and then,
Some rays of wit astonish men;
Astonish men, who seldom view
Dunghills, to meet with diamonds too.

Forgive him, Virtue, spotless dame!
Such write mistakenly for fame;
For fame's dispens'd by thee alone,
Or to the cottage or the throne;
That fame, which never can decay,
Though brazen statues melt away;
Though earth, while all her offspring dies,
Convuls'd from her shook centre flies;

And yonder orbs, that shine so bright,
Are whelm'd in everlasting night.
Shall mortals then, O Virtue, claim
Unknown to thee, thy dowery fame?
Thus some usurper might drag down
His prince enthron'd, and seize his crown.
To love, and to resemble thee,
Is only to immortal be.
Forgive them; their indecent pen
But recommends thee more to men;
As soot, while it offends the sight,
Sets off the snow's unsullied white;
Or as the diamond's brighter made
'Mid the brown darkness of the shade.

The end of the Third and last Canto.

See a piece called, The Poetical Duumvirate.

Alluding to a poem in two Cantos, entitled Rodondo, or, The State-Jugglers, written on the opposite side to Churchill, who, although corporeally dead, may be said still to survive in his works, according to the bold and expressive language of Inspiration, though applied to a far different character, he being dead, yet speaketh. This, with what is intimated in a former note, and the necessity the author was under of keeping his piece unbroken and entire, agreeable to his original plan, will, he flatters himself, sufficiently protect him from the vile opprobrium in the fable, of the ass spurning at the dead lion.

See the next piece but one under this title.

THE MONOPOLIST.

------ omnes
Vicini oderunt, noti, pueri, atque puellæ:
Miraris, quum tu argento post omnia ponas,
Si nemo præstet quem non merearis amorem.
Hor.

Sapo, condemn'd to love of gain,
Tortures for it his little brain;
Just knowing, all his pow'rs implied,
His right hand from his left beside.
His daily unremitted care,
Nor fame nor glory is to share;
But all just boundaries to pass,
Break the twelfth precept, and amass:
No matter how, or where, or when,
If but in lucky hour he can.
His God, his conscience, and his neighbour,
Are all involv'd in this one labour.
His meat, his drink, his sleep, his all,
You fitly may his money call.
He thinks each Christian duty paid,
If he can but enlarge his trade;

His trade, by all mean shifts combin'd,
To pinch, distress, and cheat mankind.
He thinks nought sinful that's conceal'd,
No crime forbidden till reveal'd;
Forgets himself a man, that he
May, fiend-like, from restraints be free:
A plan of action that defies,
At one bold stroke, both earth and skies;
A plan, far from his darling sum,
To damn him in the world to come.

When seasons frown upon mankind,
Against us heav'n and earth combin'd;
When Plenty shuts her bounteous hand,
And Want, dire Want, invades our land;
He steps abroad, with visage drear,
To add fresh horrours to the year;
Amid Despair's surrounding gloom,
To aggravate the general doom;
Assist the vengeance of the skies,
Nor fall himself a sacrifice.
No; God spares Sapo, to fulfil
On base rebellious man his will;
This done, himself unwept shall fall,
The vilest and the worst of all.

No mercy's thus to Sapo shown,
Daily his guilt still deeper grown:
And as his sins rise in degree,
His final punishment shall be.

What! gentle to a wretch whose views
So much insult the heav'n-born Muse!
Insult Humanity's great law,
Without which vainly breath we draw!
Insult Distress's tear-swoln eye!
Insult Misfortune's bursting sigh!
A wretch who, with insidious grin,
An emblem of the fiend within,
Can basely hatch a thousand lies,
If his demands may thereby rise;
Feign scarcity, when through the plains,
In smiles array'd, Abundance reigns:
A wretch, if aught but coward vile,
Trembling if you but cease to smile,
Who had purloin'd his neighbour's coat,
For pelf, or cut his brother's throat!
A wretch, who would exult to find
Heav'n no more gracious to mankind!
Snatch from Omnipotence the rod,
And act a tyrant, for a God!

His Bible's first commands despise,
And, back'd by hell, monopolize!
Mercy were here to worth unkind;
Compassion, littleness of mind.
When snakes untwist their deadly folds,
Who strangely pities that beholds?
When wolves for slaughter lie in wait,
Who careless would brood o'er his fate;
Nor snatch the instrument of death,
And claim the ruffian's forfeit breath?

Rise, Satire, and to gain renown,
Assume the Juvenalian frown;
Rise, in majestic terrour rise,
Darting swift vengeance from thy eyes;
Let torrents dashing down the rock,
Less than thy furious numbers shock:
Be no soft soothing strains thy choice,
But the sonorous thunder's voice.
Quick let the serpent's venom dart,
To reach the inly-quiv'ring heart;
Along each nerve-string let it glow,
And to life's last recesses flow!
Better one his deserts should share,
Than thousands sink in deep despair;

Reduc'd to Hunger's latest throb,
And almost justified to rob.

If those we loudly censure, plac'd
On thrones, by tyrants oft disgrac'd;
Who slaughter with unfeeling hand,
And spread destruction through the land;
Allur'd by Glory's specious call,
And surnam'd heroes if they fall:
How should we execrate the wretch,
Or how his horrid portrait sketch,
Who pleas'd can in cool blood observe
His fellow-men unpitied—starve!
Sport with their hardships; at each shock
Of dire distress, inhuman mock!
Riot on their heart-rending woes,
His gold (curs'd gold!) increas'd with those!
No gilded mite he calls his own,
But cost some guiltless heart a groan:
From Grief's half-dried-up sluices brought
A tear, with many a pang of thought.
That groan, howe'er enlarg'd his purse,
Shall prove his everlasting curse;
That tear, just gushing from the eyes,
Against his crimes in judgment rise.

What covert then shall screen his head
From heav'n's vindictive sentence dread?
Vainly around imploring aid,
What tongue of angels intercede?
What arm, omnipotently great,
Snatch him suspended o'er his fate?
Ten thousand curses must conspire,
To heat eternally his fire;
To twitch him in life's quickest part,
And wreathe like adders round his heart.

Behold! in yonder straw-thatch'd hut,
The door as in despair fast shut,
Around a hearth, where fire once burn'd,
With fix'd eyes on each other turn'd;
Almost by Mercy's self forsook,
Anguish deep stamp'd on every look;
Two wretched parents, ah! behold,
Pallid with want, and pinch'd with cold!
Wretched—not for themselves—alas!
Far deeper rankles their distress:—
Around, while husks would each revive,
Their offspring croud, scarce half alive.
One on the ground all ragged lies,
And staggers, if in act to rise!

Another gaunt, with piercing eye,
Would, famish'd, seize some guardless fly!
A third in fix'd attention dumb,
Rakes the parch'd ashes for a crumb!
Others, scarce, ah! with thought endu'd,
Mangle their very nails for food!
The melting father's forc'd to see
His darling sink upon his knee!
That round the mother's neck's decreed
To die in agony of need!
Deep, grave-like silence reigns about,
All's hopeless solitude throughout;
Save where, on broken rafter set,
Each little prattler's wonted pet,
Waiting his scanty pittance long,
The robin chaunts his doleful song.

What heart, that e'er compunction felt,
Would not o'er such distresses melt?
What but a monster's cas'd in steel,
And form'd incapable to feel?
Shall we to savage-wilds repair,
To find this human monster there?
On some inhospitable shore,
With tygers, wolves, and bears, explore?

No; in Britannia's native streets,
One daily such a monster meets.
Haste, reader, his dread haunts escape,
A vulture for his prey agape.
And Oh! the servile task excuse,
So foul a picture to peruse.
The pen how despicably mean,
To touch a subject so unclean!
That had contended for the bays
In some immortal hero's praise;
Such heroes as Britannia boasts,
The grace and bulwark of her coasts !
How could the numbers condescend
With such a pigmy to contend!
How prostitute their sacred rage,
A worm on dunghills to engage!
Yet, for amends, we next shall add
A character not quite so bad;
So, gentle reader, pray compose
Your ruffled brow, and straight your nose.

Written in the year 1762.

ZALATES.

A MODERN CHARACTER.

Mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur.
Hor.

A bard, whose laurel never dies,
To women characters denies.
But, with more justice from his pen,
He might have hence degraded men;
Or chang'd his note, with cadence sad;
Better no characters, than bad.
On Zalates the satire falls,
Him fame here an example calls.
Phantastic humour, oddness, whim,
Are our just character of him.
Bless'd with a fond and virtuous wife,
That first-rate happiness of life;
Esteem'd for prudence, and for sense,
Her love of Virtue no pretence;

In authors just discreetly read,
Agreeable, polite, well-bred;
Whom none behold without respect,
And but a blockhead could neglect:
With this fair, kind companion blest,
He's tasteless—Reader, guess the rest.
Yet, slighted thus his own, he strives
To dote on other people's wives.
So hugely fond would he appear,
He scarce can bear a rival near.
His goddess by the hand to take,
Would all his jealousy awake;
Ruffle his righteous spirit more,
Than if his --- became a ---
The very husband scarce can smile,
If he but present is the while.
Nor need uxorious pride take fire,
Poor Zalates has no desire.
He scarce his tremblings can command,
Only to touch the fair-one's hand.
But thus he well preserves his name,
From sheepish fear, and coward shame.
The blood would his plump cheeks forsake,
Were he a balmy kiss to take;

But here, not Virtue influences,
Nor modesty, his torpid senses.
Some men are good, for reason sad,
They have not courage to be bad;
The will inclines, but in its part,
From downright instinct, fails the heart.
Hence, Zalates can boast no merit,
But mere want of address and spirit.

What happiness, to all around,
In our proud Sultan's favour found!
Thus pleasing but himself, he shows,
The charming art to please he knows.
While he but gratifies his senses,
Joy in proportion he dispenses;
As, fed by juices from the ground,
Oaks spread a kind protection round;
For he, bless'd with his darling fair,
His constant unuxorious care;
Oft from pure gratitude, as due,
Their distant mates obliges too.

You ask if these sultanas are
Charming surpassingly and fair,
Somewhat to justify his taste,
And fondness, so absurdly plac'd!

No; but ineffably outshone
By her whom wedlock makes his own;
Outshone in manners, sense, and wit,
Don Quixote-like were he not smit.
But only novelties are rated,
Clara's long since domesticated.

But let not Clara take amiss
So whimsical a scene as this.
Beneath her own auspicious roof
(How can the Muse refrain reproof?)
Others, though Clara never err'd,
To her romanticly preferr'd.
Thus she escapes much awkward love,
That would almost one's stomach move.
Herself in peace and calm enjoys,
And, as she likes, her time employs.
At all if anxious, hence the smart,
Lest from her mate his whims depart;
When too, with all their vapours on,
Her doughty rivals would be gone.
Ah! what a storm would then break out,
And burst in thunder all about?
Oaths, curses, and I know not what
Of little, dirty, peevish chat;

Though with much modesty we rate,
Enough to outnoise Billingsgate.
In elbow-chair set sulky down,
How would he low'r, and gloom, and frown!
Pout out his lips in sullen mood,
Or bite his nails, or spurn his food!
His voice in perfect fury raise,
Finding gross fault where he should praise!
This servant call, and roundly scold,
Neglecting—what he ne'er was told!
Another and another still,
That he may rant and rave his fill;
Till he has luculently prov'd,
He neither dreaded is, nor lov'd!

How does our mighty 'squire appear,
With twice three thousand pounds a-year?
As void of manners, taste, and sense,
As who but count as many pence.
What value, then, has Fortune's favours,
Unbought by Virtue's fond endeavours?
Yes; God chose Zalates, to show
How he despises wealth below.
See yonder heav'n-protected saint!
He scorns to utter one complaint,

Although (blush! blush! ye scarlet-clad)
He boasts no more than daily bread.
And why? our saint must shortly rise,
To live an angel in the skies.
Gold would pollute him, and debase,
As spots obscure the diamond's blaze.
Oft Fortune makes (fine raree-show!)
A fool more eminently so.
A simple fellow, at the spade,
Passes, as suited to his trade;
But coach'd, and posting to the city,
Could you behold him without pity?
Did Zalates but drive a plough,
Much might he be respected now;
His manners and behaviour pass
Full-well with many a cottier-lass:
But plac'd beneath a lofty roof,
While worthy men must stand aloof;
Set at his table's ample side,
In haughty state and formal pride;
Or lolling in his warm machine,
Loaded with beef-stakes, bile, and spleen;
Who can behold him, damn'd by station,
Without disgust and indignation?

Say not, with half-offended air,
The pointed satire's too severe.
The picture's justly sketch'd, you own,
Yet blame so little mercy shown.
Mercy, or out of mode, or time,
Becomes, in Virtue's eye, a crime.
Improper objects too to chuse,
Is Justice grossly to abuse.
Mercy, to all the species, calls,
When Justice on delinquents falls.
The colours might be deeper still,
Did Candour not restrain the quill.
Only the outlines have we drawn,
Then kindly interpos'd the lawn;
Yet still preserv'd the likeness so,
That he his (better) self may know.
Mankind, if they attentive be,
May likewise some resemblance see.
Hence, haply, the satiric page
May read a lecture to the age;
In one (whom vainly you explore)
Aptly epitomize a score
For Zalates not single stands,
Though singly him the satire brands.

Oft his caprices we may call,
The whims and oddities of all.

Yet him for these we might o'erlook,
Not by good-nature too forsook.
Good-nature many failings hides,
In that soft breast where it resides;
But sure for him one pity feels,
Whose littleness not this conceals.
The whole employment of his life,
Checker'd abundantly with strife,
Is the sublime task—not of thinking,
But eating (like his herds) and drinking.
Saunt'ring among his oaks and elms,
While kindred gloom his soul o'erwhelms;
Gazing whole forenoons on the brook,
With idiot emptiness of look;
Feasting his eye, his smell, his taste,
Amid his spacious orchards plac'd;
Yet hence alone his pleasures strike,
That scarce one neighbour boasts the like:
His neighbour's policy commend,
His fields enlarge, his groves extend;
Increase his rents, augment his dues,
Him (strange!) insultingly you use;

His taste, superiour taste, assert,
You thrust a dagger to his heart.

Behold him next at open'd sash,
To hear the noisy cascade dash;
To see what bounteous Nature yields,
Through his extensive lawns and fields;
But with no sentiment that shows,
A soul struck with what she bestows;
But struck (no mends his virtues make)
That one day he must all forsake;
Die, like his meanest vassal, die,
And close eternally his eye;
While no sad heirs in sorrow weep,
But jubilees unceasing keep.

So little man in him we trace,
He scarce can look you in the face;
So much with boyish shame confus'd,
To manly cares so little us'd.
And whence that dark reserve of look?
(How oft for modesty mistook!)
From some bad consciousness within,
That would in act amount to sin;
Some strange ambiguous cast of thought,
That nothing fears but to be caught;

Dreading lest in his features we
His naked heart detected see.

Silent because he's forc'd to be,
From downright pure—inanity;
Whoe'er the sin of speech commits,
He pouts, he frowns, he coughs, he spits;
Or else exclaims, to vent his spleen,
G---'s curse! what do the babblers mean?
To laugh, though it you fitly time,
With him is to commit a crime.
And why? because the dolt can see,
He has no merit in the glee.
His stoicism's here all spite,
He ne'er could yet a laugh excite;
Unless at ridicule's arch call,
The jest aim'd at himself by all.
He lives, which many years have prov'd,
Scarce once respected, or belov'd;
And, when his latter end draws nigh,
Shall as sure unlamented die.

If these, a large but true account,
With men to character amount,
Then charact'ris'd our hero call,
Although he must be damn'd with all;

Damn'd by the candid, good, and wise,
Till the last spark of virtue dies.

Let mankind then astonish'd be,
Nor fabulous the centaur see.
The keenest pen him mildly uses,
Who grossly all mankind abuses;
Who the foul trump of Slander fills,
Despises the command, and kills.
And why flows scandal from his tongue,
By baneful asps and vipers stung?
Why from the dunghill of his lips,
Whence Malice her black poison sips,
Issues Detraction's venom'd rage?
Hence, he's the vilest of the age;
For meanness unexampled lives,
And merits that abuse he gives;
Would thus, wrapt up in thin disguise,
Divert the world's observing eyes.
Curs'd he, who vile himself and low,
Would have his fellow-mortals so!

Silver'd with years the hoary head,
And near the frontiers of the dead;
Who once the thought can entertain,
An age to have consum'd in vain?

Cast into life (while angels weep)
Most gloriously to—eat and sleep;
Then drop, with carcase amply fed,
Among the reptile-mangled dead!
Scarce spoke one sentence, to reflect
On his surviving name respect!
Scarce done one action to engage
The love of an applauding age!
But in oblivion dread to fall,
Like the dumb tenants of the stall!

Without some sacred fund of bliss,
For other worlds just leaving this;
Something, to give the soul content,
Resulting from a life well-spent;
How less than nothing in our view
Riches appear, and honours too?
What then can sweeten fate's dread cup,
Or keep the sinking spirits up?
When Virtue's absent, what can save
From the black horrours of the grave?
Sunk in the darkness deep of guilt,
Hope on no sure foundation built;
No friends can his afflictions soothe,
Or Death's rough, thorny tramit smoothe:

Left to the torture of his mind,
They shrink unfeeling all behind!
Of manhood, peace, and joy forsook,
With terrour pictur'd in his look,
All doubt, distraction, gloom, despair,
He sinks down, down, he knows not where!
Let Zalates then, ere too late,
Think on this crisis of his fate.
This will the Muse's fee discharge,
For thus describing him at large.
To all too let the hint extend,
Our frailty, and our latter end;
Of higher import to the wise,
Than Newton's theory of the skies;
Beyond, not all ambition gone,
Europa's diadems in one.

“O Thou! who sitt'st above the clouds,
“From mortal eye whom darkness shrouds,
“Yet, to the seraph's dazzled sight,
“Array'd in majesty of light!
“Thou greatest, first, and last, and best!
“O grant me, gracious, my request!
“(If one, great God! so mean as I,
“Dare thy eternal throne draw nigh)

“Not to be rich, see! Lazarus dies,
“Borne by the patriarch to the skies;
“Not great, for Jesus, it is read,
“Had not whereon to lay his head!
“But, praising Thee my latest breath,
“To die the humble Christian's death.
“And oh! thy inspiration give,
“That I his life may previous live.”

Reader, smile not, of all degrees,
To see a poet on his knees;
But rather go well-pleas'd away,
A bard, un-brethren-like, can pray.
And Oh! the Muse's counsel take,
As you have happiness at stake:
Would you be lov'd and honour'd too,
And please yourself upon review?
Act from a downright honest heart,
And ever scorn the dubious part.
Let Nature prompt your actions still,
Direct your choice, inform your will;
Nature we mean, all doubts apart,
Oppos'd to little cunning art.
Be still yourself, nor e'er affect
To ape rank, person, mode, or sect.

Ourselves might oft escape the pen,
Were we not apes of other men.

Did Zalates rate this advice,
By Candour fram'd, at its just price;
Were he but happily endu'd
With the great thirst of doing good;
Virtue herself might condescend
To prize his gold, and style him friend.
For what is wealth heap'd on a few,
To whom by Nature nothing's due?
The means externally design'd
For the joint welfare of mankind.
Hence Indigence in human guise,
Men poor, though destin'd for the skies.
What numbers beg their daily bread,
In tatters cloth'd, by morsels fed;
That those, whose coffers overflow,
Their prompt munificence may show;
And thus, while Pity's hands extend,
In Merit's glorious scale ascend!
By Heav'n the wealthy are decreed,
The poor with liberal hand to feed;
To clothe the naked, and relieve
The heart-felt pangs of those that grieve.

The poor, the naked, and distrest,
Not without gratitude are blest;
To Heav'n their warm petitions rise,
And hence the rich obtain the skies.
Thus, mutual friends to one another,
A clown may style a king his brother.

All men from one first parent came,
Howe'er disjoin'd by rank, or name.
All on a level, as first made,
By eye omniscient are survey'd.
And who can wisdom here impeach?
Like mortal and immortal each.
Riches then no distinction make,
Whate'er bold freedoms rich men take;
Unless, still to augment our charge,
Our spheres of action to enlarge.
If nobly faithful to our trust,
(As all to be acquitted must)
Our debtors then become mankind,
And we in Heav'n shall credit find.
The rich man (but how few practise!)
Is but a factor for the skies;
Accountable, when fates unfold,
Even for his smallest mite of gold,

How then shall Zalates appear?
How pay to Heav'n his vast arrear?
That wealth he fondly calls his own,
Is but assign'd him as a loan,
Which, on some great important day,
He must with all its interest pay.
But if insolvent found, what plea
Can set the judg'd delinquent free?
His pride men cruelly may feed,
But angels call him poor indeed.

Thus has the pencil been employ'd,
(Much with the task its master cloy'd)
To draw that portrait, which requir'd
A genius like a Swift's inspir'd.
O! did it occupy some place,
A Pharos to the human race,
Some station between earth and sky,
To strike the universal eye!
Yet had undrawn the picture been,
A novelty had pass'd unseen;
Had Satire's voice been silent, when
This great original of men
Justly provok'd her honest rage,
And offer'd laurels to the page;

The stones themselves had silence broke,
And, to mankind's amazement, spoke.

Yet, though gall in abundance flows,
No gross abuse the verse bestows.
Though keen its flight the arrow wings,
No poison it from malice brings.
Had the Horatian quill been mine,
Or, Young, thou British Flaccus, thine!
Not Zephyr-like, through osiers wreath'd,
My strains had innocently breath'd,
But loud and terrible, awoke,
And with the voice of thunder spoke;
Sublime on eagle's pinion rose,
Above the grov'ling flights of prose.

THE TRIUMPH OF VICE.

A FRAGMENT.

Addressed to James Stevenson, Esq;

Hoc fonte derivata clades
In patriam populumque fluxit.
Hor.

Not to the flowery margin of a stream,
Where gentle murmurs soothe the anxious thought;
Not to the broider'd vale, the upland glade,
Cool grotto, wide-stretch'd lawn, or rising hill,
The Muse invites; nor philosophic gloom,
Where Contemplation holds her pensive court,
And Philomel her tender throat attunes
To Love's soft languishments: far other scenes,

Far other objects, would engage thy eye,
That eye which will a brother's faults o'erlook,
And spy a beauty where the world sees none:
While others sing of Virtue's godlike charms,
And feel her raptures, while their numbers flow
Harmonious in her praise; mine be the task,
Less-lov'd, to draw her opposite, and thine.

O did the powers of Akenside inspire
My humble pen! his fancy, feeling, taste,
And energy of thought; his manly flow
Of eloquence; his judgment strong, as clear,
Profound, as strong, and as profound, correct!

What emperour on earth can boast a sway
So ample, so uncircumscrib'd, as Vice?
What king so many subjects round his throne,
Or prostrate slaves devoted to his nod?
Few potentates can boast their state secure
From rebels and from traitors, boldly bent
On success to their projects, or a grave;
Dreadful alternative! but she, by all
Her votaries so faithfully obey'd,
Scarce knows an enemy, but domineers,
With lordly rule, and insolence uncheck'd,
Both o'er her subjects properties and lives.

O Vice, how formidable is thy power,
How num'rous, how diversified thy train!
Sloth, with her hair, in dirty uncomb'd lengths,
Loit'ring upon her shoulders, stretching out
Her lazy limbs, with many a gape and yawn,
To push the sluggish current through her veins.
Lust with her wanton leer, and glance obscene,
Her lurid cheek, dim eye, and fœtid breath,
O'er-run with biles impure, and foul disease,
A nausea to herself. Swoln Gluttony,
With pamper'd visage, and foul scarlet nose,
And bloated skin; scarce able to support
His beastly load of fat, gorg'd to the throat
With luscious meats; cadaverous the smell
That from his fungous lungs, through putrid rows
Of crusted teeth, streams suffocating; soon
His well-fed carcase to regale the worm,
The hungry, thankless worm. Set by the bowl
His boon companion, Drunkenness; with voice
Vociferous, and eye that wildly reels
In its broad socket, index to his thoughts:
While horrid oaths and blasphemies burst forth
From falt'ring lips, and paralytic tongue.
Boast, savage, in thy nightly range for blood,

Loud bellowing to the rock's unconscious dells,
Thy reason—man's prerogative no more.

Nor these alone thy minions, that attend
Around thee, caught by thy alluring glance,
And fascinated by thy smile: behold!
What servile crouds officiously demand
Admittance in our song, proud to be rank'd
With thee, and all the vilest of mankind.
Base cowardice, that boldly turns his face
On every thing but danger, never acts
With honesty, but when he runs away.
Corruption, with her base and impious bribe
Extended in her hand, to buy men off
From conscience, duty, loyalty; to sear
The heart against humanity's soft pang,
The liberal hope, and patriotic wish,
The foe of Virtue, Freedom's mortal foe.
Envy, with eye askance, distorted look,
And pining heart; serpents curl'd hissing round
Her squalid locks. Hypocrisy smooth tongu'd,
With lamb-like features, and with dove-like eyes,
Although within a tyger. Mean Deceit,
Malice, Revenge, and Jealousy: Remorse,
Lash'd with a thousand scorpions, at his breast

A thousand vultures gnawing; wild Despair,
On whose dark brow the gloom of midnight lours;
With garments torn, and countenance deep mark'd
With horrour; fixing his determin'd eye
On the drawn dagger, cord, or poison'd cup.
Disease, with wan, emaciated cheek,
Glaz'd, hollow eyes, and flatten'd temples, shrunk
And dwindled to a shadow; gasping hard
For breath, toss'd in deliriums, or o'erwhelm'd
In apoplectic lethargy: hard by
Silent his tread, invisible, pale Death,
Frowning on Time, his ling'ring sands unspent.
O Vice! how formidable is thy pow'r!
How num'rous, how diversified thy train!

How glorious once was Nature! how august
Her works! how exquisite her charms, admir'd
By angels and by gods! ere Pain, and Shame,
And Death, admonish'd mankind of thy birth!
Then Innocence, in snow-white mantle clad,
From Heav'n to Earth a smiling cherub sent,
Attended by her gentle handmaids, Love,
Truth, Friendship, Candour, Equity, Joy, Peace,
Health, with her sparkling eye, her balmy breath,
And Beauty blooming with immortal youth,

Took up her residence with humankind,
Nor wish'd an habitation better form'd
To her peculiar taste, well-pleas'd below
To find that Paradise she left above:
But when the sun, from his celestial height,
Saw thee approach the frontiers of our world,
Hid in delusive form, and usher'd in
By Lucifer, fall'n spirit! hell itself
Freed of its worst inhabitant; behold!
Then Innocence, in snow-white clad,
From Heav'n to Earth a smiling cherub sent,
Attended by her gentle handmaids, Love,
Truth, Friendship, Candour, Equity, Joy, Peace,
Health with her sparkling eye, her balmy breath,
And Beauty blooming with immortal youth;
Bade Earth and its inhabitants adieu,
Happy, abandon'd and despis'd, above
To gain that Paradise she lost below.

Behold her, now, array'd in sweeping robes
Of garter'd statesman, insolent and vain,
With air contemptuous, and with head aloft,
Solemn and grave, affectedly serene,
As if—not a black villain at the heart.
With deep research of thought, sublime resolve,

With Pitt's head furnish'd, but without his heart,
How he the noble, gen'rous scheme conceives,
The patriotic scheme of—growing rich!
What tho' the foe should triumph o'er our fleets,
And Victory desert our dastard arms,
No gallant arm to interpose relief?
Unmov'd he stands, like the storm-beaten rock,
Enjoys our doom, or rises on our fall.
Thus, with small things the greatest to compare,
When rolling flames some wealthy roof assail,
The sons of plunder, exquisitely base,
Calm, unconcern'd, through suffocating fires,
Split rafters, half-burn'd beams, and sinking floors,
Slide, as through chaos hell's arch fiend, to spread
The sheeted conflagration, and to Steal.

The gamester, next, creeps forth at her command,
Till he his fellow meets, some brainless wight,
Unbless'd at home, unbless'd within himself,
Whom Heav'n has curs'd with riches. Lo! they meet,
Robbers of others purses, though forsooth,
Well-bred, polite, and courteous. In his hand,
His hand more learn'd and knowing than his head,
Each, with the matchless wisdom of a Hoyle,
Deals the mysterious pack; or on the board,

100

With ceaseless rattle, and with artful twirl,
Throws the twin spotted dice, on ev'ry cast
Depending—sons and daughters, friends and wives.

But see the duellist, whose poltroon heart
Would quake with terrour, his unmanly knees
Together smite, his hair stand all on end
With fear, his blood creep freezing thro' his veins,
Were he to face the cannon's mouth, or walk
Left by his friend abruptly, in the dark;
See him (a murderer his fitter name)
Impell'd by something foreign to himself,
Hight man of honour, seal the fatal card,
That, haply, sends his soul (O glorious deed!)
His trembling soul, to hell before its time.
Him Vice still keeps industrious in her pay,
Lest her immortal interests might decline;
Lest real Honour might usurp her right,
And noblest friendships influence mankind:
Lest the afflicted parent ne'er should weep
Her son, her hope, her joy, untimely slain;
Children their sire snatch'd from each clasping arm;
A wife her husband torn from her embrace,
By violence and death; thus to provoke
All hell to rage, on mischief ever bent.

101

But now remark her in far other dress,
In the mean peasant's tatter'd garments clad,
Who scarcely by laborious toil acquires
What keeps together soul and body, hides
His shiv'ring limbs from the cold wintry blast.
But though thus wretched in exteriour form,
Not so in thought; ambition swells his breast,
To imitate the follies of the great,
A perfect clown beside, as instanc'd here,
Still something worse. Amid the rustic ring,
He struts, talks big, and swaggers, aims his scoff,
And witty leer, at that old-fashion'd thing
The Bible call'd, swears with outrageous air,
Gets himself drunk, and whores, like any lord.

The Miser too her livery assumes,
His little heart contracted to a point,
A callous point, to every thing but gold,
The god whom he adores. Worn to the bone
With misery and want, he stands confess'd
A breathing type of death. Yet Death anon
Will not his likeness spare, but snatch his soul
To—not to Paradise, for ah! he leaves
His Paradise behind; to—not to hell,
For actual hell were needless, when alone

102

Absence from his beloved gold, were hell,
Heated to all the scorching rage of flame—

Nor shall his brother, his congenial half,
(Detested couple) hight Monopolist,
Unnoted pass. So might a fiend escape,
Sent from Perdition's dungeon, to defraud,
To torture, to distress the sons of men.
Worse than the hurricane that spreads around
Ruin and devastation; than the plague
That sweeps away whole multitudes, and leaves
Cities and provinces one horrid blank;
Worse than the earthquake that expands its jaws,
And swallows millions at one mighty gape;
Worse than the gorg'd volcano, that o'erwhelms
Whole districts in its seas of liquid fire;
Abroad he moves with more than devil's glee,
To deepen human woes, to heighten grief,
Already unsupportable, and add
Anguish to pain, and to dire want despair!
These dreadful judgments incident to man,
(Man buffeted by elements, expos'd
To all Earth's dire convulsions) ne'er imply
Will or intention: his grand scheme of life,
His settled purpose, is, to starve mankind.

103

Rumour! whence comes she, with impatient step,
And attitude of haste? breathless she comes,
Meaning impress'd on each important look.
Thus runs the purport of her ready tale,
“Vice oft assumes the sacerdotal robe,
“And struts beneath the mitre and the vest.”

What! clergymen plead guilty to the charge?
Forbid it, Heaven! blast, celestial Truth!
The bold assertion, if disown'd by thee!
Shall Virtue's ministers, the sacred priests
At chaste Religion's altar, men employ'd
In saving souls, the heralds of the skies,
Ambassadours of Heav'n; shall such forget
Their characters, their office, to attend
The palaces and levees of the great,
To catch a paltry nod, or empty smile;
Who should exhaust the pathos of discourse,
To lessen them in our esteem, and teach
A mind superiour to the pomp of kings?
Shall men of God, with prostituted knee,
Worship at Honour's tinsel shrine? pay court
To Fortune, basking on the topmost point
Of sun-gilt pinnacle, still turning round,
As flows the fickle current of the air?

104

Shall preachers of humility assume
The turgid look, or supercilious air?
Shall messengers of peace, of love, embroil,
And plunge themselves in faction? enter fierce
The hackney'd list of libellers? increase
The public spleen? with random censure blast
The best and fairest characters? foment
The rage of civil discord? fan the fire
Of argument and disputation? all,
—To share a dinner at a patron's board:
Their flocks meantime, no guardian shepherd nigh,
Left and abandon'd to the rude attack
Of Vice and Errour; fatal, as night-wolves,
Or tygers, to the fold. Such better far,
Had serv'd their king and country in the field,
With hat cockaded, and with knotted sword,
A carnal weapon fit for carnal men;
Trench'd in the quirks and subtilties of law,
Wielded their wordy thunder at the bar;
Or with the riban'd cane, and full-spread wig,
Prescrib'd the lancet, julep, or the pill:
Such better had been sons of Traffic, bred
Learn'dly to count and discount at the desk;
Mechanics, fiddlers, players; taught, in fine,

105

To handle spades, tend flocks, or hold the plough;
Than thus our pulpits wretchedly supply'd
With men, whose well-bred fashionable lips
Not, for the world, would purposely accent
That monosyllable of terrour—hell,
Uncouth, as obsolete; afraid to meet
The frown that threatens from a grandee's brow,
Nothing more impotent—except his smile.

Yet, some there are, who in a storm of words,
A cushion-aided eloquence, exhaust
Their own strain'd lungs, and overwhelm the ear
With mere noise, and unsentimental sounds;
Vociferating, with the thunder's voice,
Hell and damnation, all their genius spent
In these tremendous accents, foisted in,
Without grace, meaning, or propriety;
Nor with success; for such command the eye,
Alarm the ear, but never reach the heart.

Ah! how unlike the theologues of old
Our modern parsons! strikingly unlike,
In manners and address! but rarely seen
That plain simplicity of garb, of life
That unaffected innocence; that calm,
That humble, meek deportment, which so well

106

Become our teachers, and examples too!
How many, ah! absurdly think their task
Perform'd, their duty done, but to expound
A solitary text one day in seven;
The rest devoted to the endless round
Of saunt'ring and amusement, sordid cares,
Pursuits and studies, foreign to the gown!
Such may do all mere human laws exact,
To earn a yearly stipend; such may pass
With well-bred patrons, or a noble Lord,
All whose religion, in the aggregate,
Is lolling on a cushion once a-week,
To hear a pray'r pronounc'd, or sermon read:
But Reason thinks her dignity concern'd
In not absolving such; while Conscience joins
Reason in all her scruples; and what both,
According in their sentence, right announce,
Heav'n surely must in equity affirm.

Ah! how unlike the theologues of old
Our modern parsons! strikingly unlike!
Save in some wretched corner of the land,
Where, from hard, blunt necessity, not choice,
In thread-bare suit attir'd, unless perchance,
Half naked, as half-starv'd, some simple wight

107

A curate call'd, is fain to vend his pot
Of nappy ale, or glass of apple-juice,
As if the labourer not worth his hire;
Or, lower still, to enter the foul sty,
With bands and cassock thrown aside, to feed
His bristly hoglings, grunting for their draff.
Yet better scatt'ring acorns here, than pearls
Despis'd, elsewhere, before far other swine.

Thus the poor tatter'd curate spends his days,
Unenvied, yet, perhaps, esteem'd and lov'd;
Toiling in Heav'n's own vineyard, yet no drop
Of the choice vintage to inspire his heart
With gladness; nor needs our Nathanael such
Prelatic, royal comfort, to support him,
His conduct blameless, as his manners chaste,
His mind contented, and his conscience clear;
His Maker's wages these, as that mere man's.
Thus lives our humble curate, far from strife,
Save the illustrious strife of doing good;
Far from his mitred brethren, as remote
Haply, from him, in sense and virtue, they,
Clearness of head, and probity of heart.

But what fine object now attracts the Muse,
Struck with superiour awe? beauteous as Morn,

108

When she the portals of the east expands,
With rosy finger; all divine her form,
In presence like a queen, she moves along
Lovely in ev'ry step, and looking round
Pleasure ineffable; her mien, her air,
Grace, ease, and majesty; her soften'd eye
Bright with the sparkle of a midnight star.
Each lineament Complacence marks serene,
Candour, and Sweetness. On her charming neck,
Her shaded neck, soft as the downy peach,
The virgin snow, with no ignoble pride,
Bestows its purest whiteness, left behind
Its native cold. On every dimpled cheek
Roses emit their bloom, the bloom of youth,
Of innocence, of health; nor here confin'd,
But lavish all their sweets upon her breath
That steals through lips of coral. Furnish'd thus
With graces, airs, and smiles, beyond the touch
Of pencil, or the drapery of words;
Say not that Vice, presumptuous, dare approach
An angel in terrestrial guise, unless
From her fair presence to retire, abash'd
And overaw'd. Let Censure's tongue be mute,
And Slander bite her lips in silent spite.

109

Truth turns aside offended from the tale.
For see how charming looks Camilla, set
Deep in the umbrage of a woodbine bow'r,
Conversing with the learned Dead, who live,
More than mechanically live, beyond
Detraction's reach, safe from the poison'd fangs
Of Calumny, in the immortal page:
Authors, where Virtue shines in native charms
Of chaste simplicity, and undeform'd
With philosophic daub; where manly Wit
Flashes his sprightly sallies, Fancy glows
With all her picturesque descriptive pow'rs,
And force of imagery; such still as charm
In Milton's page sublime, seraphic bard!
In Pope's mellifluous numbers, or in Young's,
That master of the eloquent and grand;
Or flowing Thomson's well-imagin'd strains,
Or Akenside's, or Shenstone's: names inscrib'd
On monuments more permanent than brass.
There, amiable maid! in beauty's bloom,
In youth's, in health's, exemplify'd she shows,
How each exteriour grace, each skin-deep charm,
And elegance of manner, by a mind
Enlarg'd by thought and reading, is improv'd.

110

Behold Dulcissa exquisitely pleas'd,
While she admires the needle's arts display'd
Creative; sees the smooth, or figur'd lawn,
The fine-wrought linen, or soft cambric spun
With all the nicety of spider's web,
Or costly stuffs from Indian climes convey'd,
Chang'd in their texture, form, and surface, now
No more the uniform and simple thread,
But richly vein'd with curious Dresden work,
Or rough with elegant embroidery.
Touch'd by the magic needle in her hand,
What noble figures on the canvas swell,
Tumid with silver, cotton, or with silk!
How accurate that hand, that gentle hand,
Which all their well-conceiv'd proportions fram'd,
With finish'd delicacy, and bestow'd
Their striking statures, colours, and attire!
Well may a new creation of her own
Delight her gazing eye, and heave her breast
With sentimental pride; Almira thus
Still Scipio's noble maxim may adopt,
While objects, wheresoe'er she casts her glance,
Court her survey, and almost seem to breathe.
There Candour, with her open honest face,

111

And eye of soften'd sparkle; Beauty drawn
With more than mortal likeness; Modesty
In virgin white attir'd, and Meekness plac'd
In silent downcast attitude, afraid,
Her look, her air, her gesture might offend.
In vain would Sylvia, self-approv'd, pretend
To rival these bright patterns of her sex;
Sylvia the subject of each coxcomb's lay,
And boast of every fop, howe'er set off
With all the finery of mode and dress,
Her handmaids, Taste and Fancy; underneath
The pomp of silks, and jewels; on light toe
Conscious she moves along, by all admir'd,
In the smooth measures of the minuet-dance;
Or salient trips the floor's elastic board,
With step accordant to the sprightly jigg:
The room all odour'd with the rich perfumes,
That from her shining locks profusely breathe,
Or handkerchief, or bottle's crystal tube,
While to her smell applied, her lovely hand
Displays a white scarce rivall'd by the snow.

Thus, while to courts and levees others croud,
To bask in sunshine of a grandee's smile,
(Short as the glow-worm's twinkle, and as cold)

112

Put on a face occasional, relax'd
And smooth with adulation, to belie
Their lurking hearts; the Muse has turn'd aside
With indignation, to inform mankind
What company there awaits them. But enough
Of Vice, ignoble, and unpleasing theme!
Away, thou monster, since men fell from Heav'n,
Too much admir'd; away from all the haunts
Of humankind, with thy associates dire,
Disease and Infamy—But O! begone
Chiefly from Britain's celebrated isles,
The seat of Empire, Liberty, and Peace,
Of Learning, Commerce, and the Muses.—Vice
May triumph, but let Virtue not despair.

113

To the Honourable ---.

An EPISTLE.

Tell me, dear ---, all impatient grow,
For you perchance alone the secret know;
What climate now a certain bard conceals,
Who writes what others wrote, yet seldom steals;
Who knows to cull, in gardens flush'd with flow'rs,
Each one that fairest smiles, or tallest tow'rs,
Yet, with strange whim, almost beyond compare,
Oddly prefers the lowest, and least fair:
Say, why in silence lies your poet's pen?
Sure bards are rank'd among the first of men—
Else why flow'd music from Pope's tuneful tongue?
Why not forgot that Addison once sung?
Young had not else high-soar'd on wings of fire,
Nor Milton stole from Heav'n a seraph's lyre,

Through all the wide Creation's glorious round,
Is no fit theme to suit his genius found?

114

No Season, to transfer into his page
The grove's soft music, or the tempest's rage?
Can he the world of politics survey,
Or morals, not less circumscrib'd than they;
Hear Fame's loud trumpet sound Britannia's praise,
Nor yet find subjects worthy of his lays?

If blame and odium to excite he's loath,
Let him remain conceal'd, and merit both.
By formal rules Candour's ne'er taught to see,
Hence Learning oft and Candour disagree.
Candour beholds with fair and honest eye,
But through lens optic Learning needs must spy.
Thus faults are magnified beyond their due,
And beauties render'd blemishes oft too.
Thus Fulvia's neck appear like parchment may,
And gems themselves a surface rough betray.
But Nature means her objects to be seen,
No artificial lying glass between;
Through which our eagle-sighted critics look,
When authors they would praise, that is, rebuke.
Yet we confess, what some perfections deem,
As faults to others may as justly seem;
For who expects, as wonders cease to be,
All should in looks, or sentiments agree,

115

Must first reverse Heav'n's universal plan,
And to an angel change the very man.

Fictitious wings o'er streams successful skim,
Inform us then what bait will answer him.
Though the sinn'd victim might from harm have stray'd,
He spies, pursues, he leaps, and is betray'd:
Yet others boldly near the surface swim,
And seize secure the insects as they skim.
But how uncertain oft the trial leaves,
When Nature courts us, or when Art deceives!
Haply of both the specious lure's the same,
The insect's pinion, or the plume of fame;
That hides a point, how fatal to the brook!
A dagger this, oft dreadfully mistook!

Your bard is silent, yet what numbers praise!
But writing would with some his merit raise.
Let him, undazzled by the shine of pelf,
Examine well his motive in himself.
If nothing hence gives vigour to his pen,
Let him remain—the silentest of men.

Say then, dear ---, does the verse invite
The nameless author, or forbid, to write?
The author nameless, though to you well known,
Who for another's beauties slights his own.

116

Builds on foundations laid from others' pelf,
Though few can lay a better than himself;
As yonder sun shines feebly by the moon,
Though he can blaze in majesty at noon.
If you the question can discreetly solve,
Go clear those doubts Time's thickest mists involve.

LAURIA.

At still Night's solitary watch,
Half of mankind sunk in debauch,
While with their gold starv'd misers share
The wakeful agony of care,
And screech-owls, with ill-boding pow'rs,
Hoot through lone walls and haunted tow'rs;
At yonder desk see Lauria sit,
Fond to be styl'd a sister-wit
Her pen and standish wait hard by,
The snowy sheets before her lie,
The snowy sheets (what have they done?)
Soon with foul blots to be o'er-run.

117

How soft she looks in midnight-gown,
Sweeping all negligently down,
The sleeves (quake, insects, for your sins)
In much disorder stuff'd with pins!
Below her chin a nightcap ties,
To shade her features in disguise,
Left she might ever tempted be,
In glass her naked face to see;
For sure we vanity rank in
The meanest acts of venial sin.
A riband, garter-like, around
Keeps her full head-dress fitly bound;
Yet, in despite of all her care,
Oft peeps out rudely straggling hair.
To veil her downy swan-white neck,
The daring footman's gaze to check,
An handkerchief she wraps about,
Of dainty russet, plain and stout:
Tuck'd in the foldings of her gown,
The cross-laid ends hang dangling down.
That nought may incommode the muse,
She slides along in undress-shoes.
Slippers we mean; for always kind,
She hates her guiltless feet to bind,

118

Learn, ye fastidious virgins, hence,
To save each useless vain expense.
How humble Lauria, and how meek,
Though youth still triumphs in her cheek!
Rather than needless trouble give,
She greatly deigns—in dirt to live.

Thus, dress'd in Nature's simple prime,
(Conceit was Lucifer's first crime)
In sweet Humility's plain suit,
Artless, but elegant to boot;
Lauria, in happy mood to think,
Ventures straightway on pen and ink.
Beware, ye bards of low degree,
Her satire points at you and—me.
Lauria is yet a maid; how then
Can she refrain her virgin pen?
Were she arriv'd at full five score,
We might indeed our fears give o'er.
But if not wedlock-join'd till then,
Have mercy on the sons of men!
Lauria unwed, can she refuse
To raise up children to the Muse?
For lo! to thwart eternal fate,
Two females here can procreate;

119

Furnish'd with that fell thing, a pen,
Scorn the virility of men.
Still more, our wonder forth to draw,
Conceive and bear unwed by law.
Nor marvel, Lauria still should prove
Almost unmatch'd in tender love.
Her infants seem, one with another,
All striking transcripts of the mother.
But, to the offspring of her brain,
Begot and born with so much pain,
Since Lauria shows such constant care,
Shows all the softness of the fair;
A prejudice that stands excus'd,
To near and dear connections us'd;
Who would wish Lauria, sane in mind,
A parent of another kind?
Who would not husbands too refuse,
For their espousals with the Muse?
All, she excepted, from mere spite,
Who ev'ry thing can do but—write.

Her needle, no false taste to show,
Lauria abandon'd long ago.
And sure her fame this to disperse is,
Her needle ah! can write no verses.

120

A needle, made of ruthless steel,
Women must hate, while women feel.
It puts one cruelly in mind,
Of murders acted on mankind;
Dreadful, in the same conscious breath,
Alarms with blood, and wounds, and death.
What chillness too it thought brings dire on,
Dozing for ever o'er cold iron!
With quills be female battles fought,
But, brandish steel!—tremendous thought!

“Amid the languid calm of life,
“Hoping one day to be a wife,
“Who, with a soul born to aspire,
“Those cares and duties can admire,
“Though ne'er her temper out of joint,
“Plac'd on a sorry needle's point?
“The task of sewing seems design'd
“For females of the lower kind,
“Of knowledge thus far unbereft,
“To know their right hand from their left;
“Dowdies, that never yet could hit
“On one bright sally of true wit;
“Give a smooth harmonious turn,
“Or with poetic fervour burn;

121

“But born eternally to pore,
“And do the same thing o'er and o'er;
“Nor feel, so lifeless the employ,
“One soft thrill of tumultuous joy.
“Who, as a housewife, can pretend
“Her name through distant climes to send?
“Macaulay's palm historic claim,
“Or rise to Sappho's height of fame?
“Give me but paper, pen, and ink,
“And leisure undisturb'd to think;
“Think on a selfish, tasteless age,
“And vent my bitterness and rage;
“To show (what transport it implies!)
“That creature, man, I can despise;
“Give Lauria these, to others then,
“She leaves the task of—nursing men,
“To dull domesticated wives,
“Content with mere existing lives;
“Content to plod on with their spouses,
“And live on frowns within their houses;
“In little, silly, whining chat,
“To praise and censure this, and that;
“Still, still the burden of the song,
“Indeed, my dear, you're in the wrong.

122

Thus Lauria would do all she can
To pour a great revenge on men.
See yon emasculated race,
In each the female you may trace,
So soft, so delicate, so nice,
So mortally afraid of—mice.
If but the winds presume to blow,
They dull and melancholy grow,
Lest on their gentle organs cold
Should through some fatal chink take hold.
If reptiles innocently crawl,
Or from the roof a spider fall;
“Good Heav'n! the death-cold faint's come on!
“The bottle! for my master's gone!”
If thus the masculines in sex
Females become, nor Nature tax;
If thus, with unambitious mind,
Infringe the rights of women-kind;
Lauria's resolv'd revenge to take,
And just the like encroachments make.
To see a thousand victims die,
She scorns on beauty to rely.
Lauria affects much to despise
The fire-wing'd arrows of the eyes.

123

Far other weapons would she chuse,
Prepar'd and sharpen'd by the Muse.
Those of her coward sex she scorns,
Like insects butting with their horns;
But boldly wrests from lordly men
That mighty weapon call'd a pen.
Turn'd on ourseves, can we pretend
E'er to escape our latter end?
No; fall we must, or Heav'n displease,
That is, by nature, or disease.

Hail, Lauria! how sublime thy praise!
Thou heroine of modern days!
Arm'd with a quiver from Parnassus,
The terrour of faint-hearted lasses,
Who thy fierce onset can withstand,
Or shun fate darted from thy hand?
What sevenfold shield protection throw
O'er mortals to avert the blow?
Yes; Prudence interdicts delay,
Gird up your loins and—run away.
How else escape, with lucky star,
A female thunderbolt of war?
You live secure from Lauria's charms,
Not Lauria terrible in arms.

124

How happy Lauria's thus employ'd,
And with the task too overjoy'd?
Else had she wasted endless sighs,
Now the shrin'd Muse's sacrifice,
Of her choice china ware bereft,
Nought but the broken fragments left,
Thrown in a tempest on the floor,
—For Tom forgot to shut the door.
Her little lap-dog else had been
The guiltless object of her spleen,
Poor Cloe, whom, with fond delight,
She in her bosom hugs all night.
And why? no bedfellow she boasts,
And ah! she trembles much for ghosts.
Her bulfinch too had lost his eyes,
Though happier far the finch that dies,
Pierc'd by the execrable wire,
Heated remorseless in the fire.
Hard fate! his anguish to prolong,
And beauty spoil, to mend his song!
Sweet bird! that, ravish'd of his sight,
His dirge had warbled day and night!
But let thy notes in triumph rise,
The Muse redeem'd thy pretty eyes;

125

All Lauria's passions deep engag'd,
That else far otherwise had rag'd;
Allow'd no active thought to be
Unoccupied, to torture thee.

Such ills domestic had arose,
Had Lauria deign'd not to compose;
Had she, in disrespect of men,
Preferr'd her needle to her pen.
Thanks to that dignity of thought,
Vainly with simple housewives sought;
That elegance of taste refin'd,
That delicately-feeling mind;
Which scorn, with much becoming strife,
The female drudgery of life.

STELLA.

Behold! in yonder study plac'd,
Form'd with true principles of taste,
Stella in learn'd retirement sits,
Amid a group of sleeping wits.
Sleeping, but not on down or chaff,
But in a book-case, bound in calf;

126

Cover'd with honourable dust,
As medals spread with precious rust.
Before her still some volume lies,
She studies with quadruple eyes.
Some love-stuff'd comedy perchance,
Or Sophonisba, a romance.
The science of the kitchen taught,
How pasties and confections wrought.
What Tillotson or Barrow wrote,
For modish theologues to quote.
Perhaps, her Pray'r-book, or her Bible,
Which wits and geniuses would libel.
Nay; nothing farther from her study,
Writings, that make one's brains quite muddy,
Or the reverse, and full as bad,
Make wilding Fancy run stark mad.
Earth's smaller wits would she despise,
To soar with Newton to the skies;
Living, cameleon-like, when there,
Most sentimentally on air.
Newton, who, with Lyncean eye,
Travers'd the whole capacious sky;
Who from some angel stole that plan,
Which seems above mere mortal man!

127

That plan, where worlds and systems great
Roll, by fix'd laws, in glorious state.

In her this adage prov'd we find,
“Earth ne'er can satisfy the mind;
“The mind, a stranger to content,
“Beneath the moon ignobly pent.”
Besides, what doth the text require?
“To Heav'n still let the soul aspire.”
For where abides her treasure, she
Thinks there her heart should ever be.
Thus she fulfills—in Newton's school,
Each truly pious, Christian rule.
Nor ask another reason, why
Astronomers affect the sky.
Let others read with head alert,
Stella reads with enlighten'd heart.
Let others chariots gilt admire,
Stella mounts Newton's car of fire;
Not through the Mall, her steeds all foam,
But o'er Heav'n's argent fields to roam.

Thus arguments our fair, mayhap,
“Earth's but a point in Nature's map;
“A little toy to Fortune thrown,
“As from the tube the bubble blown;

128

“In the dimensionless abyss,
“Where one world lost we scarcely miss,
“An atom, till the zephyr fails,
“On which a midge in triumph sails;
“A particle of sand, cast out,
“Through boundless space to roam about;
“Then, from its equilibrium tost,
“In matter's mass collective lost:
“Why then, ambition all forgot,
“Inhabit this poor paltry spot,
“Which meanest reptiles share with us,
“And live, not more a monarch does?”

Of fashions Stella seldom talks,
Of auctions, sales, or public walks,
The ball, assembly, play, or rout,
Which half the sex grow mad about.
These, left to the phantastic lass,
Who can whole days at toilets pass,
The strange task hackney'd o'er and o'er,
To be—less charming than before;
Her only glass, view'd with intense
Survey, the telescopic lens.
On planets, stars, and comets, she
Can scarce one moment silent be;

129

Far other stars than grandee's coat on,
Which only unlearn'd females dote on,
Which such alone fantastic prize,
As Fate ne'er destin'd for the skies.

Newton's arcanas Stella can
Sublimely—trust to learned men;
The laws of Gravity conceive,
While triumphs vast her bosom heave,
Mere household females ey'd with scorn,
Better than thousands—never born;
Or when, sometimes, her passions strong
Would gravitate towards the wrong.
The force centripetal she knows,
That is, when she puts on her cloaths,
That no pin from its hold departs,
Nor from her waist the whalebone starts:
Centrifugal, when from her eye
Sparks of ingenious passion fly;
When words (such sweets no wild bee sips)
Fly off eccentric from her lips.
Thus, without Euclid, Stella shows,
The deep, deep mystery she knows,
What strains it fitly can express?
To speak (astonishing!) and dress.

130

Nor to yon brighten'd fields of air
Soars only our exalted fair,
Whirl'd (no example to her sex ill)
On ev'ry planet's flaming axle;
But condescends, of problems weary,
To lose a thought on Burnet's Theory,
Which doubtless she can understand,
Like any—lady of our land;
Distress'd (the total who can tell huge?)
To find out waters for the deluge;
Doubting, as if a God of fable,
Jehovah to produce them able.

Of thoughts too to improve her stock,
She much affects to dote on Locke;
That mortal pitch'd upon, to show
Reason how near divine below;
Happy, not from the task he shrinks,
But for her most humanely—thinks.
He surely her esteem must share,
Who lightens Stella's heaviest care;
And the esteem of womankind,
Who hence some good will always find;
For busy'd thus, from Stella's lips
Scandal no poison ever sips.

131

ZEPHALINDA.

Yes, Zephalinda fain would wed,
And venture with a man to bed;
If he can make it but appear,
His rent's a thousand pounds a-year;
The more above it still the better,
But nought below it e'er will get her.
Her darling you exact describe,
If you can him with esquires tribe;
Though it is hinted at by some,
Artists succeed might—with a plum.
Her wooer, to successful prove,
Must with his bags in hand make love;
The weightier they, our fair less nice,
Her smiles fastidious bought by price:
A guinea's jingle has more charms,
More moving pow'rs, more soft alarms,

132

Than all the pathos that abounds
In mere articulated sounds:
Alas! your oratorial youth
Speak freely ev'ry thing but—truth.
Come then, for Zephalinda's smile,
Who talk this unaffected style;
Above the vulgar daub of phrase,
Which always want of taste betrays.
Your language, without foreign aid,
Untaught by Johnson, can persuade;
The true Laconic mode of speech,
Which scorns that sniv'ling term, beseech:
Come, to receive, nor ever part,
A Zephalinda's faithful heart;
And sure—till gold and virtue one,
You peace and joy must smile upon.

Nor think our fair sultana can
Impose upon the sons of men.
Who voluntar'ly wears her chains,
Value receiv'd, at least, obtains.
For is she not supremely—witty,
Though blockheads hence her yoke-mate pity?
Who can her beauties half display?
Blithe, courteous, young, polite, and gay.

133

What further would Ambition crave?
Come then, and buy the charming slave.

Whether her suitor Whig or Tory,
To our fair maid's a trifling story.
Whether a Methodist, or Quaker,
He (ev'ry Sunday) serves his Maker;
With look demure, or priestly quirk,
Obeys the high church, or the kirk.
Whether, with three-tail'd wig, or bag,
Some learn'd jurisprudential wag;
Who nobly saves, when fools unlock it,
His client's fortune—in his pocket.
Whether a doctor of renown,
Sweeping in sacerdotal gown;
Who knows, to charm the ravish'd fair,
All arts and sciences but—pray'r:
Or, as nice qualms ne'er overstock'd her,
A very downright carnal doctor;
Who, when some malady has spent her,
From death can save her—to torment her.
But chief she likes, to tell the truth,
A dear, dear military youth;
Who never can to her prove cruel,
Unless when he declines a—duel

134

These all, if fortune makes them like,
With equal charm of merit strike.
Each thus, though pair'd like heav'n and hell,
Becomes the other's parallel.
Whate'er his colour, fair or brown,
With carriage up, or carriage down;
Whether a coxcomb, fop, or cit,
With, or quite destitute of, wit;
A boor, in fox-chace garments clad,
Or court-spark, perfectly well bred:
Whether a patriot of renown,
In rolls of parliament set down;
Or that fierce vindicator morum,
Some plump-cheek'd justice of the quorum:
In fine, whate'er his birth or rank,
His money landed, or in bank;
Whate'er through life his casual track is,
A rake in theory, or in practice;
If he can but commodious fix
Our charmer in a coach and six,
Such, if but physically man,
Comes up to Zephalinda's plan:
And justly too; for marriage, sure,
Is not Love's, but Ambition's cure.

135

Nor rashly Zephalinda blame,
Not anxious more for wealth, than fame,
Who fame's pursuit so far would carry,
As to be wretched, that is, marry.
Say, why the rich man she affects,
And nobly merit poor neglects.
Thus, to evince her Sterling wit,
She greatly dotes on Sacred Writ;
Would have its sayings all fulfill'd,
And all its precepts deep instill'd;
Concern'd, that consecrated book
Should be for pert romance forsook;
(How well she on the sense has stumbled!)
Which says, “The proud man shall be humbled.”

LUCIA.

Fair Lucia, to no fortune born,
Affects all nicety to scorn.
Why should her virtue rigid prove?
Why prove an enemy to love?

136

Since Fortune's favours, ah! denied,
In which such pleasures are implied;
Why not indulge her tender mind
In pleasures of another kind?
Her state dependent cries aloud,
“It ill becomes you to be proud.”
Her wants in the same hint agree,
“You ne'er can too obsequious be.”
Thus, what a vice in others seems,
She in herself a grace esteems.
“Virtue but differs from a crime,
“By certain rules of place and time;
“Morality on mode depends,
“With it declines, with it extends;
“The mode our circumstances make,
“Acting from them we ne'er mistake;
“Our circumstances, right to count,
“To fix'd necessity amount;
“And sure, our inference to draw,
“Necessity's above all law.”
Thus, Lucia, with conviction still,
Waves bold her philosophic quill;
Despises Tillotson and Locke,
And crushes Barrow at one shock.

137

Go on, sweet maid!—O! what delight
To think, “Whatever is, is right!”
That partial ills, well understood,
Will usher in the general good.
Say, can a lovely female err,
Who would to self mankind prefer?
Make mortals happy—if she can,
Quite piteous of the sons of men?
No; while Philanthropy's extoll'd,
And first in Fame's bright lists inroll'd,
Lucia the fair must ever prove
The parmanent rewards of—Love.

FLAVIA.

See, Flavia, marriageable grown,
And with a fortune of her own,
Perhaps, some hundred pounds a-year,
Affects no husband but a peer.
Transporting thought! to be ally'd
To noble blood and—nought beside.

138

A Countess, wealthy, rich, and fair!
Death sure a coronet will spare.
Flavia this choice discreetly makes,
Peers ever are the greatest rakes;
And Flavia would do all she can,
But to reform such dear, dear men.
“To turn, while heedless on he strays,
“One from the errour of his ways,
“Is like a star, by will divine,
“In heaven eternally to shine.”
Thus Flavia, with true Christian pride,
Would wed with Scripture on her side;
Acquire, to live renown'd in story,
A coronet, and crown of glory.
Kings but one crown, alas! desire,
She greatly would to twain aspire.

139

Early-rising and its Opposite compared.

For want of something else to do,
Some plan of action to pursue,
How many doze away their time,
Nor think they perpetrate a crime!
With bare existence ah! content,
Behold their years and lustrums spent!
If you no glaring sins commit,
Thank not yourselves, but sleep, for it.
Stocks too, and stones, might merit claim,
Were you here to contend for fame.
Howe'er we draw alternate breath,
Sleep's but a temporary death.
The sleeper then, whoe'er he be,
A murderer is in degree;
A murderer of what in vain
We would recall to life again,
Minutes, hours, days, months, years:—alas!
Can man more fatally transgress?
Murder what, were it rightly us'd,
From mean pursuits our passions loos'd,

140

Whether late hir'd, or at eleven ,
Our service would reward with Heaven!
Up, sleeper! then; who knows what hour,
God may, omnipotent in pow'r,
Make meritorious (no mean prize)
Of life immortal, and the skies.
If sound in body and in mind,
A state which still the temp'rate find,
Mankind fallaciously would use
The merit ev'n of an excuse.
Nature demands but little rest,
Howe'er with daily toils opprest;
He then that lengthens out repose,
Her into much disorder throws;
O'er the blunt sense a torpor spreads,
Which more than death the wise man dreads;
Unfits us to perform our parts,
With clear prompt heads, and cheerful hearts;
To grace that rank or state, in which
Men to be great affect, or rich;
Unmans the spirit, born to soar
Those heights but Newton soar'd before;

141

Unbraces ev'ry nerve of strength,
And quite enfeebles us at length.

Your moralists in theory say,
“Why should the night encroach on day?
“It, sure, looks somehow like a crime,
“To live but half our destin'd time;
“To sleep, each manly care dismist,
“Is not to live, but to exist.
“Life at the best is but a span,
“Yet that how oft curtail'd by man!
“Life's unkind shortness we lament,
“Yet make it shorter by consent;
“Lose hours, and months, and years, in sleep,
“Nor o'er them, like the Roman, weep.
“Can man more foolishly behave,
“Shortly to slumber in the grave,
“Where in dread rueful calm he may
“Ages with reptiles doze away,
“Till both eternally dissever,
“Man rous'd by Fate to wake for ever?
“How worse than madmen we behave,
“Daily our bed to make our grave!

“Nor in this view alone we err,
“While sleeping we to life prefer.

142

“Time's a vast loan to mortals lent,
“Which but discreetly should be spent;
“Good works the int'rest Heav'n demands,
“A wakeful eye and active hands:
“He then that slumbers time away,
“Refuses his arrears to pay;
“(Arrears that, with just rigour sought,
“Would make poor mortals worse than nought)
“He obstinately shuts his eyes,
“And wakes a bankrupt to the skies.”

How speciously the story told!
Reverse the medal, and behold!
To rise with the first matin-song,
Is life officious to prolong.
And what is life, in perfect beauty,
A tract of swerving from our duty?
Man then by waking nothing wins,
But swells his catalogue of sins;
Adds deeper crimson to his guilt,
And drives the dagger to the hilt:
For, soon as wakers we commence,
Reason we slight, and live to sense.
Besides, no medium we can keep,
We must be wicked, or must sleep.

143

Soon as Sleep's opiate leaves his eyes,
M---s---n's astir to gain the prize,
The prize, which orphans' tears bedew,
Circled with wreaths of deadly yew;
Where baneful plants and herbs arise,
And the pale wither'd laurel dies;
Which Satan, while base Lucre twines,
For his much honour'd brow designs,
(What earthly master so caressing?)
The prize of pinching and distressing.
Around him misers still we trace,
A bachelor, detested race,
Whom gold makes impotent, by it
For Earth, as well as Heav'n, unfit.
Yet better, from chaste love of pelf,
One sordid wretch should starve himself,
Than likewise with vile, curs'd pretence,
Starve others in a double sense.

Alluding to the celebrated parable in the Gospels.

A noted money-broker in E---; hard, miserable, and wretched to the last degree; whose trade consists in taking the basest and most cruel advantage of peoples distresses and difficulties.

144

Conclusion to the Satires.

Thus has a bold satiric Muse,
Ev'n in the face of three Reviews,
Beneath Hope's trusty helmet stout,
Into the wide, wide world launch'd out.
Ye Critics, use a stranger well,
Mind what the patriarch erst befel.
Barely to give a bard his due,
Though just, is hardly courteous too.
Yet, fairly if adjudg'd to fall,
You punish him, but favour all;
For all the sentence will sustain,
By which pronounc'd the Public gain.
Whether you censure then, or praise,
Him you oblige two sev'ral ways;
His praises on mankind reflect,
Censure on him's to all respect.

Go forth then, bold undaunted page,
Stuff'd with the follies of the age,
(Perhaps the greatest folly thou)
Eternal war with whim to vow,

145

And Dulness, in whatever shape
She genius would absurdly ape.
Haply, to pour revenge on thee,
All ranks thy mortal foes shall be,
Enrag'd to see their foibles lash'd,
Thou in the fire with fury dash'd;
Beneath ingloriously to lie
Some mighty volume of a pye;
Eternally to sleep in dust,
As many a brother-author must;
Dispatch'd, from vile tobacco-shops,
(O foul disgrace!) to beaus and fops;
Dispatch'd to---but, O Silence, come,
Command Conjecture to be dumb.
Yet martyrs to the truth shall claim
Tiaras of immortal fame.
Though but a motley piece at best,
Made up of dry discourse, and jest,
Somewhat obscure, from names unknown,
A veil o'er all industrious thrown,
Unless where the indignant Muse
Greatly disdain'd a mask to use;
Yet, names apart, you, now and then,
May hint a useful truth to men;

146

While Rubbadash, in love with strife,
Falsely arraigns his virtuous wife;
Absurdly thinks from others flow'd
Those blessings Heav'n on him bestow'd,
Though all mankind agree, quam verum
Quod ille est origo rerum.
But Virtue ne'er could worsted be,
Heav'n interpos'd and set her free.

What! trembling thus?—Reviewers threat
Me with no clemency to treat.
For shame!—their stated works survey,
You lash pert Dulness, so do they.
Pursuing thus commutual ends,
You doubtless must be mutual friends.
Hence be encourag'd—up—begone,
With all your resolution on.
But they (mistakes befal the wise)
May call me Dulness in disguise;
Or, fond of Butler's numbers, scorn
His ape, without his genius, born.
Then acquiesce, and kiss the rod,
Nor falsely call such treatment odd.
If dull yourself, you dulness lash,
(As billows empty billows dash)

147

Myself will not ward off each thwack
Justly inflicted on your back.
But though you should escape Reviewers,
Behold still troops of fierce pursuers.
From lions your retreat you make,
But serpents lurk in ev'ry brake.
Yet Genius, through the deathless page,
Shall shine like suns through ev'ry age;
Dulness, illum'd from meteor-light,
Sink deep in everlasting night.
Who once can Nature's order stay,
Make noonday night, or midnight day?

But now our satire's just enough,
With pick-tooth, pipe, and pinch of snuff,
And endless arts to keep awake,
The critic's evening task to make.
Still to protract our song, would steep
His senses all in downright sleep.
Then might his hands forget to gripe
His snuff-box, or his reeking pipe;
And thus some much-deplor'd mishap
Befal his waistcoat, or his lap;
Adown the adust powder spilt,
On sleeve, lapel, and button gilt;

148

Or on the floor, ere sight return'd,
Might fall the kindled leaf half-burn'd,
The carpet catching quick the flame,
That carpet which from Turky came.

But lest we should commit a deed,
Which would make ev'ry heart to bleed,
We now shall stop in happy time,
And, saving critics, save our rhyme.
Save us then too, friends to each other,
As one good deed deserves another.
Far milder pictures of the age
The critic shall anon engage;
Such objects as no mortal fears,
The Muse and Elegy in tears.