University of Virginia Library

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.