Churchill defended, a poem :: :: University of Virginia Library

Churchill defended, a poem

addressed to the minority [by Percival Stockdale]

Stockdale, Percival (1736-1811)

[section]

CHURCHILL DEFENDED.

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Periculosæ plenum opus Aleæ
Tractas; et incedis per ignes
Suppositos Cineri doloso.
Hor. Carm. lib. ii. od. i. v. 6.

CHURCHILL DEFENDED.

Only weak Men, or Men of wicked Views,
In narrow Limits would confine the Muse,
Who spurns Restraint; she's form'd, by Heaven's Decree,
Like every true-born Briton, to be free.
Her Subjects, at her Pleasure, she may change,
Take all Creation's, and all Fancy's Range;
To sordid Themes alone she must not stray,
Nor wing her Flight as Vice directs the Way.
Now heedless of the Grave, and the Severe,
She breathes Encomium in a Female Ear,
Dwells, with soft Rapture, on the Fair one's Charms;
Or sings the Prowess of the English Arms;

Now mourns their Thunder should abruptly cease,
And paints the Scandal of inglorious Peace.
Do noble Ethicks claim her moving Lays?
Who gives an Aristotle any Praise?
Who can endure the Saws of ancient Fools,
The Mould, and Cobwebs of the doting Schools?
No, powerful Bards; yours is a higher Part,
Who can resist the Language of the Heart?
—Your Numbers vibrate on my tingling Ear—
What Wretches are not better while they hear?
Poets!—I feel your animating Heat,
My Pulse, and Breast with virtuous Fervour beat:
Yes, yes, I'll wipe away the Widow's Tear,
The tender Orphan I will help to rear:
Yes, to my bleeding Country's Aid I'll fly,
I'll live with Freedom, or with Freedom die!—
Enough—enough—a seeble Mortal spare,
The Heavenly Extacy I cannot bear;
Too fired for my terrestrial Clod I grow:
Oh! all your Lines are Nature and Rousseau.

After the Transports of this warm Regale
Would not we find extremely cold and stale
A Sermon spoken by a Reverend Prig
In all the Pomp of Gown, and Band, and Wig,
Mangling the Meaning of a holy Text
With—I'll consider first—I'll speak to next—
Or such odd Stuff, such Castles in the Air
As oft contaminate the House of Prayer,
Preach'd by Enthusiasts, Enemies to God,
R---e the Frantic, or the flimsy D---d?
But chiefly be the Patriot Poet blest,
Rais'd high in Dignity above the rest:
Health, Peace, and Honour, while on Earth he stays,
With all their Sun-shine crown his precious Days!
May Eden's Fragrance breathe around his Tomb,
And his Fame flourish with no fainter Bloom!
Ye glorious Heroes, on your Shades I call,
Whose Worth protracted Rome's and Greece's Fall!
To you I humbly offer my Appeal,
To you, best Judges of a Nation's Weal:

If Public Spirit lives yet in a State
Where selfish Luxury forebodes it's Fate,
Burns it not in the Bosom of the Bard,
Who but from Conscience planning a Reward,
Fears not, in Liberty's Defence, to meet
The black Assassin in the gloomy Street:
Turns a base Judge, through Majesty of Strains,
Pale as the Miscreant, whom his Power arraigns,
From a vile Minister extorts a Groan,
And galls a Monarch on his gorgeous Throne?
Churchill's my Subject—generous Churchill hail!
Critics may snarl, Ecclesiastics rail:
Scotchmen appall'd, will certainly abuse
The manly Efforts of thy nervous Muse:
Deathless, however, will be thy Renown,
Thine is the Poet's, thine the Patriot's Crown.
What Champion of Parnassus will step forth
To blast the Censure that infests thy Worth,
Bid all thy native Lustre fully shine,
If I the just, though daring Task decline?

I who (forgive the Pride) presume I see
Thy Nature and thy Fortune fall to me,
Oft by the Thames, with genuine Ardour fraught,
Hast thou attended while thy Dryden taught:
I in a harsher Climate, on the Tweed,
The wonderous Poet oft was wont to read,
Deep, and more deep imbibe his heaven-bred Flame,
And sigh—“Shall I too ever have a Name?”
But both our sacred Fires have long been quell'd,
Against our Genius curst Restraint rebell'd;
Luckless we plung'd into a Sphere of Life,
With Wit and Learning constantly at Strife;
Each rosy Doctor pass'd our Merit by,
But mark'd our Failings with a cruel Eye.
Perhaps, too, Passion led us oft astray
From Virtue's arduous and celestial Way,
Postpon'd the Notes we sooner should have sung,
Our Nerves of Body, and of Mind unstrung.
Let me be just, however, to our Fame,
Recite our Glory, if I tell our Shame.

Thanks be to God, our Hearts, at least, are good,
Beat English Sentiments, and English Blood;
To Virtue's Claims if e'er we were not true,
Still on her Charms a longing Look we threw:
We never justify our own Misdeeds,
We'd halve a Shilling with a Friend that needs;
Each of us, though not worth a single Groat,
Would scorn on S---h to confer his Vote;
And each would rather far be poor, and brave,
Than wear a Mitre, and commence a Slave.
Churchill is fond of Women, and of Wine,
And therefore shocks a phlegmatic Divine.
But pray, good Saints, be patient and attend
To a few Sentiments of Churchill's Friend.
Thou! whose Omniscience doth at once descry
Whether I speak the Truth, or speak a Lie,
Knowest how much I venerate the Code
That only shows us Heaven's unerring Road;
And should no future Life our Death await,
Bespeaks most Comfort for our present State;

Knowest, whenever I have weakly err'd,
No fix'd bad Principle the Action stirr'd;
That it was never Sophistry's Pretence,
By which I was misled, nor merely Sense,
But when of Innocence I dropt the Care,
'Twas Gaiety seduced me, or Despair.
Yet I imagine, Ministers, you'll see
How different are the Thoughts of you, and me.
On that important, and tremendous Day
When Earth's extensive Globe shall melt away,
When all of mortal Race their Doom shall know
From a Court juster far than these below;
To Churchill's Lot I'd rather be consign'd
Than e'er a Prelate's with a haughty Mind;
Whose oily Skin, I grant, is very sleek,
And lively the Vermilion of his Cheek;
Who always in his Chamber has display'd
The Bible, as from it he holds his Trade,
But never all the while once in it looks
More than I read in Mason's pretty Books;

And who, when Dinner's Hour arrives at length,
If he but feels a Stomach in full Strength,
Obeys, with Joy, the Bell's harmonious Call,
Nor cares a Rush for Peter, nor for Paul.
Like Churchill sometimes would I drink and whore,
Sooner than anxious heap the money'd Store,
Than in December's pinching Month be told
How the poor shiver, and not feel their Cold;
Then mount the Pulpit, and turn up my Eyes,
Fitter to look at Hell than toward the Skies,
And in Expostulation grave declaim
Against the Miser's unextinguish'd Flame.
In Truth we're weak Theologists; we all
Oft Victims to a fav'rite Passion fall:
To different Failings different Men incline,
He loves to drink, and you rejoice to dine;
Sometimes he hies him to a yielding Fair,
Tithes and First-Fruits are your intemp'rate Care.

Now when I praise our Poet's manly Song,
Full, but not tedious, quickly writ, but strong;
Whose Force almost effects its great Design,
Oh! how I dread my unexperienc'd Line!
Thy Verse from Error sets a Nation free,
Shows how Things are, and how they ought to be:
There Daws are stript of every borrowed Plume,
A Pension ill befits a stupid H---e;
There Scottish Disputants are taught to bawl
No more about Macpherson's Cheat, Fingal;
Fingal's despised with all its empty Sounds,
With all its Ghosts, and Shrieks, and Mists, and Wounds:
Men of Sense see what Dupes they were before,
And ancient Novelty's admir'd no more.
Grave Pierce, who comments on the mighty Dead,
Finds they were Mercury, and he's but Lead.
Gloster, with Erudition over-sed,
Its Fumes ascending to his empty Head,
Who on free Wits, forsooth, would force his Law,
Like eastern Kings, with Arrogance, and Awe;
In Learning now has not one Word to say,
But conscious of his Dulness, stalks away.

But thy great Love of England to behold,
See thee to save expiring Freedom bold,
The Works of Vice, and Villainy display,
And bare their Ugliness in open Day,
Numa turns downward an attentive Eye,
And Cato bends in Rapture from the Sky.
Gods! how I grow an Angel while I read—
Quick—plant a Dagger in my Hand with Speed,
And let me plunge it in a Villain's Breast,
Whoe'er he is, by whom a Land's distress'd;
Who to the Yoke a liberal Race would bring,
And with Delusion lulls an honest King.
See—see the Hangman comes to stop my Breath!
Well—I shall live for ever after Death:
Mine will be one of those Elysian Bowers,
Where Pleasure ever leads the roseate Hours;
Where Reguluses venerable Shade
Finds all the Torments of his Life well paid;
Where Curtius from the Gulph a Spirit sprung,
And all Elysium at his Entrance rung:

There Aristides, all his Hardships o'er,
Now meets with Greek Ingratitude no more.
Finds, notwithstanding human Disregard,
That Justice one Day meets its full Reward;
There Nought can possibly perplex the Blest,
There all is Transport, or Ambrosial Rest:
In their soft Sleep unruffled Fancy teems
With Entertainment of pacific Dreams;
Awake, the People of the blest Abode
Hold noble Converse on the Works of God;
Or to seraphic Notes they tune the Lyre;
Their Hands obey the beatific Fire;
Their Song is worthy of the Realms of Day,
And Streams and Groves return the silver Lay!
Does Verse in any Poet that we know
With less Constraint and Affectation flow?
The Dignity of Churchill's Muse disdains
The Poetaster's little Tricks and Pains;
She pours her Strain with Negligence and Ease,
And sure to captivate, she scorns to please.

Though Giant-W---n should foam with Rage,
Thine is superior to Pope's polish'd Page:
Our Natures a Variety require,
And 'tis not only Terseness we admire:
'Twere better if in Pope there were not found
Mellifluous Uniformity of Sound,
A Poet seldom reaching the Sublime,
But in Sense happy, and spontaneous Rhyme.
In Arts congenial Souls each other prize,
And to each other's Glory strive to rise;
Thou keepest Dryden ever in thy View,
Praisest him largely, but thy Praise is true:
Henceforth, with him, then, be thou rank'd in Fame,
Your lofty Thoughts, unlabour'd Style the same.
Thou canst not still o'er Pinks and Daisies stray,
Thou leavest Mason every Fount and Spray.
Perhaps even now, in Luxury of Woe,
Thy Soul forgets each Trifle here below,
Proud for a Devonshire her Tears to shed,
And call up all the Virtues of the Dead.
Those very Virtues came to thy Relief,
And stop the Torrent of Affection's Grief:

For thou reflectest on his present Sphere,
And wipest soon the tributary Tear;
Thou recollectest what low childish Things
He now deems Courtiers, and the Smile of Kings,
Whom Patriot-Spirits hail'd with loud Acclaim,
And Cato's Ghost gave Sanction to his Fame!
Say, Churchill, shall I condescend to show
The Impotence of every stupid Foe,
That mouths at thee for putting off the Gown,
Smit with the Fever for a Bard's Renown?
Such heavy Lumps, alas! are Lumps of Steel,
We need not tell them what they cannot feel.
Otherwise one might teach them, that to shine
The happy Fav'rite of the tuneful Nine,
Is a Fruition which to countervail
Antichrist's Wealth, and triple Crown would fail.
Now, can a Genius have its proper Play,
If you're condemn'd, in a wrong Mood, to pray,
And do some Blockhead's Drudgery every Week,
As Puppets by an Ass are mov'd to speak?

But yet to please a Scotchman I'll admit
You learnt from Conscience you were quite unfit,
And therefore left the Service of the Lord;
I wish all Parsons would with you accord
To quit the Fold who could not feed the Flock;
Of Reverends then we'd have a moderate Stock;
I fear the Residue would prove so small,
St. Stephen's, Walbrook, might contain them all.
How few exist in these degenerate Days,
In whom all private Int'rest, private Praise,

Are but the second Motives that call forth
To public Notice their intrinsic Worth;
Who quite neglectful of the downy Bed,
Old Solon's Manes hovering o'er their Head,
For Britain anxious, in their lonely Hours,
Trim the pale Lamp, and wake poetic Pow'rs!
Hence the vile Herd, in whom there ne'er arose
One pure Emotion for their Country's Woes,
Who, when we conquer'd on the Land and Seas,
Were only thankful for their own dear Ease,
Think Churchill is impell'd by Self alone,
And give thy Soul a Standard like their own.

The humane Rousseau brings a heavy, but just Impeachment against these enervated and selfish Times, in the beginning of his Treatise on Education. —Ces deux Mots, Patrie et Citoyen doivent étre effacés des Langues modernes. —“These two Words, Country and Citizen, ought to be struck out of modern Languages.” Emile, tom. i. pag. 8.—Selon la Copie de Paris.—This Observation, as a general one, is indisputable; and, were it not for a few Churchills, it would be true in the strictest and most absolute Sense.

We seldom now go into Company, but we hear a few Dabblers in Politics assert, with a great deal of Self-sufficiency, that the Minority is just as corrupt as the Majority; that both are bad alike; and that Profit and Power are the main Springs that actuate each Party.

But it were well if these Gentlemen would consider, that the Principles from which they reason in this Manner, are by no Means applicable to every particular Case: For, probably, they ground their Affirmations on the Depravity of the Age, on that Indifference to the Good of the Community, which they experience in their own callous Hearts, and in their overweening Opinion of their own Judgment.

Faults in thy Form, and Manner too, they find,
Because Heaven bless'd thee with a noble Mind.
For me, I like thy Manner, and thy Form,
Though “like a Porpoise's before a Storm.”
In whom great Parts and Liberty have Place,
Each little Singularity's a Grace.

Thanks to the Gods, the Show that dazzles Fools,
And makes them err from common Sense's Rules,
Me of my Judgment never yet could rob;
I like thee better with thy old black Bob,
Thy Spartan Roughness, and thy rusty Cloaths,
Than the whole sallow Tribe of Green-Park Beaux.
What is a Coxcomb's Complaisance or State,
The finest Person, and the finest Gait?
What's Lace, what's Powder, and a dangling Cane,
Where there's no Generosity, or Brain?

See Mr. Churchill's Independance.

Ye gen'rous Public, is it not unjust
That Churchill is accus'd of Rapine's Lust,
Merely of seeking undeserved Gold,
Because, forsooth, his precious Works are sold?
Let us from Aldgate move to Temple-Bar;
Is there a Drayman, one who drives a Car,
Is there a Cobler in his humble Stall,
Plodding with Last, with Bristles, and with Awl;
Is there a simpering Merchant in our Way,
Who gives us Bows, and bites from Day to Day,

Whom ever we reproach because they're paid
For plying their inferior pimping Trade?
How then can bount'ous Englishmen refuse
A proper Premium to a generous Muse?
Is not the Man deserving a Support
Who'd not take Millions from a tainted Court?
For writing Nonsense hath not Hume Reward?
How can we then refuse it to a Bard?

Thou, who to latest Times art doom'd to live,
The hardy Tribute of my Muse forgive,
Who just from Trouble struggling to get free,
The Theme of her Exertion chuses thee!
Justice to Greatness here is only meant,
Tho' bold her Effort, gen'rous her Intent.

Sure this World's Limits cannot be the Goal
Of our aspiring, immaterial Soul,
So often in her best Endeavours blind,
So oft repell'd by Heaven's almighty Mind.
And must I then thy Exit now deplore?
I'm told this Moment—Churchill is no more!

Whither is England's Guardian Angel fled?
Her Wilkes is outlaw'd, and her Churchill dead!
Ill-fated Friends!—no further must I go,
Words are but Mock'ry of my pungent Woe.

John Hume.

Come, Priests, in gen'ral, cruel, tho' demure,
And strip a Poet of his little Cure:
I can but then be absolutely poor,
And Dryden's Flame was chill'd with Want before.
Good Epictetus, whose unspotted Fame,
What Man degenerate of our Days can claim?
Inured to Fortune's Rigour from his Birth,
Possess'd but Virtue, and a Lamp of Earth;
And pamper'd Churchmen, you and I have read
Of one who had not where to lay his Head.
But whate'er Levite, e'en tho' deck'd with Lawn,
(At any Time I'd rather threat than fawn)
Not from Religion's, but Revenge's Call,
With cruel Purpose first shall plot my Fall,
Only because I now am too sincere,
In his true Character he shall appear;

Quick shall the injur'd Muse her Province claim,
And damn the Tyrant to immortal Fame.
Then on the Day he reads my poignant Strain,
Perhaps the Pyramid shall tower in vain;
Perhaps he'll hardly taste the Beef-stake Pye,
And view the Turkey with a languid Eye.
Yet fancy not that your vindictive State
Is able to decide a Poet's Fate;
He cannot feel Destruction's iron Rod,
'Till he's deserted by the World, and God.
'Tis yours a Curate's Pittance to suppress;
I'll not be studious, nor be gay the less:
From London can my Expectations fail,
Where sweet Humanity and Taste prevail?
London's my Bar—I hear the Muses Call,
I rise by London, or by London fall.
But may you principally be my Friends
On whom the Welfare of a Realm depends,

Heaven's Favourite few!—and witness Heaven's high Throne,
Your Cause is dearer to me than my own.
If still a patriotic Road I steer,
And publish Verses worthy Alfred's Ear,
Favour my Path; but if I change my Course,
If dirty Pelf on me has any Force,
Oh! let not You, nor any of our Isle
E'er sooth my guilty Conscience with one Smile!
Under your Banner if I don't inlist,
Basely my Constitution I resist.
Poets and Orators, alike design'd
To tame the Roughness of the human Kind,
Bid each for others with Affection glow,
Promote their Pleasure, and relieve their Woe,
Never need Hope to prosecute their Cause,
Unless attach'd to Liberty and Laws.
Both Kinds of Genius are by Heaven inspir'd,
How can they then be tim'rous when they're fir'd?
Dwells Honour ever with the callous Knave?
No more the Muses with a crouching Slave;

Nor bless'd and Blessing will a Public be,
Unless the Current of the Soul is free.
Fraught with the Love of Liberty and Greece,
Demosthenes had not a Moment's Peace
Till he compleated what from Nature came,
And gain'd what Nature had deny'd his Frame.
The ardent Orator along the Beach,
As we're inform'd himself was wont to teach,
And give his Elocution to the Waves,
That Athens might not prove a Troop of Slaves.
Conway, in Heart and Speech, to Britain true,
Of private Int'rest dropt the sordid View;
He thought, no Doubt, he had a Corps in vain,
Since we were tir'd of drubbing France and Spain;
Happier in Devonshire's bequeathing Care,
Than curs'd by B---e to be his only Heir.
Horace and Virgil follow'd Freedom's Arms,
And scorn'd, tho' worsted, to resign her Charms.
Augustus, with the Love of Letters grac'd,
Mæcenas too, who had his Master's Taste,

Were forc'd to grant a Poet's honest Pride,
The Licence to a conquer'd Globe deny'd.
Restraint the modest Virgil could not bear,
He would have blush'd a Slave to draw the Air:
Horace, one Stroke of his pathetic Lyre,
Say what you will, exceeds all Pindar's Fire,
Had not a single Drop of servile Blood,
Just went, and came, and study'd as he wou'd;
Just as he chose, without a Master's Rule,
He rode his Pegasus, he rode his Mule;
Now stretch'd at Ease amidst fair Tiber's Bloom,
Now shew'd a Wonder in majestic Rome.
Minority, I come a Volunteer,
A youthful Bard immoveable by Fear:
My glorious Purpose dauntless I'll pursue,
Proud of Distress with England and with You.
Yet I conjecture but some length of Time
Must bring Perfection to my darling Rhyme.
Ingredients foul my Hippocrenè stain,
By Idleness polluted, and by Pain.

I've long been buried in a mean Fish Town,
Woful Provocative to high Renown!
Much I've neglected Study's useful Store,
Nor know I much the World's momentous Lore:
Temple's fine Converse ne'er enrich'd my Soul,
I ne'er drank Imagery from Wilkes's Bowl.
Tho' now, 'tis possible, my lib'ral Song
May somewhat startle the corrupted Throng;
It haply henceforth more Desert may claim,
And through their very Marrow urge its Aim.
Thus in his Cradle as Alcides lay,
He slew two Serpents in his Infant-play:
But sinewy now, and grown a Man at Length,
On greater Feats he exercis'd his Strength;
Encourag'd by a Hero's conscious Pride,
The many-headed Hydra he defy'd;
Kill'd what alarm'd a trembling World before,
And delug'd Lerna with the Monster's Gore.

FINIS.