Original poems on several subjects In two volumes. By William Stevenson |
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| III. | CANTO III. |
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 | Original poems on several subjects |  |
44
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.
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.
45
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.
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,
46
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.
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.
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,
47
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.
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.
48
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.
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.
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.
The mighty author of Rodondo,
Had they not thus themselves amus'd,
And all their gall in rhyme effus'd.
49
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!
50
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.
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.
51
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.
Than waste in idleness your time;
Or, which is worse, from Discontent,
Your rage and spite on others vent.
52
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.
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,
53
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.
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.
54
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!
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.
55
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?”
“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?
56
“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.
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.
57
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.
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;
58
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?
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?
59
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.
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.
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.
60
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.
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;
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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.
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.
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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.
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,
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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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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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.
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;
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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.
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.
| Original poems on several subjects | |