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The Soldier

A poem. Inscribed to The Honourable General Conway [by Edward Thompson]

Thompson, Edward (1738?-1786)

[section]

[dedication]

THE SOLDIER.

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INSCRIBED TO The Honourable General CONWAY.

See where he comes! a Victim from your wars;
Old in his Youth,—an Hospital of Scars.
The Peace concluded—lo! the Hero lies,
Cheated by Agents;—and forgotten, dies.
Such is Œconomy, from whence arose
Famine to Friends, and Luxury to Foes.—

THE SOLDIER.

Rebellious Angels, in an heavenly sphere,
Aim'd at the crown—as Stuarts have done here:
The Rebels fell—Virtue triumphant rose,
And, like the Devil's, damn'd the Stuart's cause:
From such exalted, chosen Legions, came
The godlike character, the Soldier's fame—

Hail! men of arms, who, when the world began,
Protected honour, when the cause of man.
Hail! men of arms, whose gen'rous souls defend
The injur'd Beauty, where she seeks a friend:
Dare give that proof which gen'rous Scipio gave,
Who, 'midst his Triumphs, nobly stoop'd, to save
A captive Princess; such the Roman part;
Such is our William's, such our Conway's Heart.

Hail men of arms!—so lavish of your blood,
To bleed, to die, for a cold Country's good;
Who dare, in spite of black oppressions fight;
Who lose your own, to gain your Country's right:
Who dare what no mechanic soul e'er cou'd,
Dare life, dare fortune give for England's good.
And, in return, What may this England give?
Not wherewithall to make the Soldier live;
Not even wherewithall to cloath the breast,
That bore thy banners thro' the savage West.
O grateful Country! to forget the souls
That gave thee consequence between the Poles:
Made thee of consequence, in spite of fools,
Who've now undone thee—by their undone rules.

O! shall the men who sav'd their Country's fame,
Rot on a dunghill?—Shall none dare to blame
The purse-proud pilot of a shatter'd bark,
Who gropes at noon, where others steer at dark?
Shall in Honduras Spaniards spill our blood,
And Twitcher say—“It's but a little wood.”

Shall dull Oeconomy, with high bon'd cheek,
Feed ev'ry Scot, and I not dare to speak?
Shall Mc on Mc roll like the endless waves,
And the poor Savage own the rods of slaves?
Will not our numerous lists one man afford,
To rule that place he conquer'd with his sword?
Shall Crauford, like a mole, St. Philip's mine?
Must Johnson too be sprung, or else resign?
Shall this mean partial fiend unnotic'd pass,
Roll'd in his plaid? and I so much the ass,
Tamely go on, tamely my burden bear,
And tamely eat those thistles meant his share?
Tamely submit to arbitrary sway,
And not exert my parts, the power to bray.

Can men of courage, men of honour, bear
To starve—whilst some proud Peer's scholastic heir,
Whipping his top, or rolling of his hoop,
Is in his goe-cart trundl'd to a Troop—
Across a stick shall master E---t prance,
With the same colours that I bore in France?

Or, to burlesk us—shall the pratty Cheild,
Go with his Nurse, and rattle to the field?
Shall Woolly G---r---n from his syntax be
Remov'd at once into a company?
Or shall this bread and butter Hero rule
With the same rod, he feels at Eton school?
Rule those who felt the scars of Minden's day,
When this young Lord could scarce with pussy play?
Shall Stuart's subalterns, with many a scar,
Have no preferment for a seven year's war?
Shall all this be, and not one honest pen,
Assert the cause of injur'd Englishmen?
Shall men in power, because their power is great,
Distress the Army to support their State?
Shall Lady J--- too uncensur'd die,
And cease to sell, because we cease to buy?
Shall all her ill begotten heaps of gold
Rest, like those dead commissions she has sold?
Shall she in infamy return to dust,
And I not shame her mercenary lust?
Shall all these be, and shall not such base crimes
Make name, make carcase stink to after times?

Shall dirty Agents, or their dirtier Clerks,
In chariots chalk me when I walk the Parks?
Shall that Scotch kennel too, in Conduit-Street,
Breed up foul mongrels both to bark and cheat?
We without fear in war, in peace have fears;
Of half-pay cheated, and of all arrears:
Are not these fears sufficient, sad alarms!
To make the brave renounce the bearing arms?

Tell me the diff'rence now of being brave,
And being a base, rank coward to the grave?
Since Ministers dare leave the brave to rot,
Their deeds forgotten, and themselves forgot;
And yet applaud the coward, tho' the stains
Were made indelible, on Minden's plains.
Shall he, that dastard Minion, rise to fame,
Who lately skulk'd thro' ev'ry street for shame?
Shall he, whose deeds drew from a feeling throng,
Contemptuous dirt, a patriot roll along?
Shall all this be, and not a change so sad,
Clip the gay wings of Martinets run mad?

Can we forget how D--- lost his joy,
And wept he'd ever rear'd so base a boy?

The times are chang'd—It's quite enough we're gay,
The coat gives honour, and the coat gives pay:
Hyde Park gives battles, battles without wounds;
For flanking parties beat the nightly rounds:
The pay's the same, and home preferments show,
To kill a waiter's braver than a foe:
Our body Guards have gain'd as much renown
At Charing-cross, as those who sack'd a town.
They seem to me, when e'er they deign to stir,
Deep in a marrow-bone, like Gulliver.
The coward's coat appears as bloody red,
As his who bravely fought, who bravely bled:
Honour's a jest, cowards of sense despise,
He's doubly mad, who madly fights to rise;
What's Liberty or Property to him,
When Honour will not mend a broken limb.

Of old, when Harry Monmouth's banners spread,
The brave were cherish'd, and the brave were fed:

In those rare days, when Kings durst hear alarms,
And nobly bear the brunt of adverse arms:
Could look with Knowledge on a gay Review,
Could flog with spirit, could reward where due:
Such were the lives the antient Soldiers led,
And such the Sons which antient Britain bred.
Friends, in those days, the soldier never sought;
The King, promiscuous, with his people fought;
Beheld their acts, bore the fatigues of war;
Knew all their pains, and made them all his care:
Like Trajan, tore for bandages his shirt;
Bound up their wounds, and felt the soldier's hurt.
In these rare days, you'll find us very few,
As Trajan good, or Harry Monmouth true.

O! my brave Soldiers, who your wrongs can read,
But as he reads must blush, and blushing bleed,
To find your inj'ries of so late a date,
And issued from that oracle, the State.
What must we think—when men, august by birth,
Can stoop to hurt the reptiles of the Earth;

And yet neglect the eagles of the skies,
Which roam at will, and threat the subjects eyes.
Base was the thought, where e'er the thought began,
To stoop to break, to starve a poor old man:
Not old by age, old by the arms he bore,
Arms which obtain'd him honour from his corps;
Arms which a Cæsar might have wish'd to weild,
When Accourt reap'd the glories of the field.
O! Accourt, Accourt had thy children's food,
Hung on a step-dame Country's gratitude!
They might have roam'd from door to door, and sought
That bread, for which their poor old father fought.

Come, my brave Soldiers, tho' our Country bows
To mix her friends amongst her bitt'rest foes;
Yet still the gen'rous Soldier feels the sting,
And loves his Country above ev'ry thing.
Such could I wish that love in ev'ry soul,
At least in those who mean to rule the whole.
Self-love's a channel, narrow and confin'd,
The dirty current of a dirty mind.

Our Country's love is that which purely springs
From Patriot subjects, and from Godlike Kings:
A love for ever permanent, and free,
And quitting Statesmen, Conway dwells with thee.

Should war, dread war, our Country's peace molest,
Conway would bravely aid her thus distress'd;
Conway would die upon the patriot plan,
Whilst Glory wept—Alas!—the brave young man.
Such is the Soldier, tho' he feels a frown,
His Country's wrongs obliterate all his own.

O! my brave Soldiers, had these Chiefs in power
Endur'd, in all their lives, one single hour,
One single hour, the hardships of that field,
When Wolfe died, vanquish'd, and saw Montcalm yield:
Could they look tamely on, and count your scars,
Old in your youth, a victim from the wars?
Had base Oeconomy so basely chose,
Famine for friends, and luxury for foes?—

Curs'd should that parent be, who rears his son
To arms, to be at last by knaves undone:
In war, to ruin court the noble youth,
In peace, distress him from his easy truth:
But doubly curs'd are they whose bitter spite,
In hopes of death, allure the boy to fight:
Tickle his infant mind with golden dreams,
Of Cæsar's triumphs, and young Ammon's schemes:
Build him a thousand castles in the air,
Of Scipio, and the Celtiberian Fair:
Paint to him golden Domes, and silver streets,
And giant Kings, transacting giant feats:
Of captive beauties chain'd in some lone cave,
Who weep, who hope, some friendly hand to save:
Of poison bowls, of hair hung daggers tell,
Of Quixot's tombs, of some lewd witches spell;
Ambrosia jellies, and Elesyan flowers,
And nectar pouring like our Summer showers:
Of more Eurydices than I can tell,
For him to rescue from the jaws of Hell.—

Say, can an infant mind withstand such treats,
Gold glitt'ring houses, and pale silver streets?
A fair Maid bound, perhaps, like her he loves,
Fires him to fight—and all but love removes:
The trifling baubles of his youth, no more
Delight, his mind's upon a foreign shore:
Glory's his study, arms are his delight,
By day his longings, and his dreams by night:
Th'impending dagger, and the poison bowl,
Serve, in their turn, to elevate his soul:
Achilles' tomb, or fair Medea's charms,
Prompt him abroad, and make him cry for arms;
Mamma or Aunt, or Nurse, or all together,
From wond'rous dreams transport the little feather:
From such dull prophecies the Hero sighs,
Till with a wooden sword they gird his thighs.

Alas! how service clears this air built cheat,
When scars, fatigues, and frowns are all they meet:
When Men of Int'rest, without Virtue bred,
Shove their young bastards, or the Vet'ran's head:

Destroy that hope, for which we Soldiers fight,
Our rank by service, and our rank by right:
Such are these times, times which we cannot boast,
When Merit's fixt in an eternal frost.
Things went not so when Harry Monmouth reign'd,
When English Kings were Generals, and deign'd
To act beyond our modern, narrow thought;
When Agincourt declar'd how Harry fought.
O! Harry Monmouth, who could hear thee say,
Give us more foes, to have the more to slay;
But must exult, must fire, must dare to fight,
Tho' nature brought the coward in a fright.

Such were those times, when Kings would dare to bleed,
And in the camp would with their Soldiers feed:
When Gen'rals quite as hungry as they're now,
Would blush to strike the mercenary blow:
Would blush, tho' base, to see their actions spring
Before so young a Man, so good a King.

In Monmouth's time, had Distribution dar'd,
With bird-lime hands, to have so basely shar'd

That bounty, which the right of arms supply'd;
For which so many fought, so many died:
Had Harry known it, he had mark'd the slave,
And kick'd the hungry mongrel to the grave.

Tell me one man, who has the world sail'd round,
Amongst those various animals, e'er found
A Rat, a Rat that could one night devour
Ten thousand dollars, and the whole secure?
Rats, which thro' Convents burrow'd, gnaw'd thro' chests,
Pillag'd large Churches, and destroy'd the Priests:
Rats, such as these did Mexico produce,
Rats, which the Leaders found of wond'rous use;
Of so much Use, they kept these cunning Rats,
In high protection, from the hungry Cats:
Had it been known, a Cat did once molest
These long-tail'd Thieves, at some poor prisoner's chest,
He had been skinn'd, and flogg'd, and Lord knows what,
As a retaliation to the Rat.

O! should the Ghosts of those dear injur'd souls,
Rise from their murky graves, and dreary holes;

With bloody arms, with bloody hammocks hung,
And roll this catechism o'er the tongue?
“Where is that right for which we spilt our blood?
“Where is our Widow's, where our Children's food?
“Where is one man, besides thyself, would dare
“To rob so many by so base a share?
“Give twenty shillings for these souls who died,
“Keep twenty thousand pounds to glut thy pride:
“O shame! O shame! O shame! to have it said,
“You starve the living, and disturb the dead.”
From these great acts, if France should menace more,
What injur'd Soldier will defend this shore?
What head-strong fool will run to thy relief?
What beggar Warrior feed a hungry Chief?
When such disinterested gifts were spread,
To those who vanquish'd, and for those who bled.

Enough of wars, and all their chain of griefs;
Enough of Agents, and enough of Chiefs.

When Roman Soldiers bore the prize of fame,
Were their amusements check'd by acts of Game?

Where they denied upon their own Demain,
To shoot that bird, which fed upon their grain?
Shall some rich Booby of a Country 'Squire,
Possessing all the follies of his Sire?
Roam at his will, kill what he pleases too,
And I,—who've serv'd my Country, most not shew
May face, amongst such sycophants of fame,
Who eat,—Ye Gods!—what I'm forbid to name.
Are these our liberties, are these the laws,
Which fetter those, who fetter'd England's foes?
Was it not for the Soldier's gen'rous hand,
How had oppression stalk'd throughout this Land?
What had you been, but from their arms, their wounds?
But justly shot, like Birds, upon your grounds.
But such is money, that a booby Heir,
Takes out a writ against a bird of th'Air,
Or lays embargoes on the feather'd Kind,
Which God intended gen'ral, as the wind.

But stop not here, let Conway's inj'ries speak;
And if the crimson does not quit the cheek

Of all but Ministers, I'll cease to tell
How brave he fought, how wrong'd the Soldier fell.

This brave young Man, whom patriot glory bore
To fight your battles, on a foreign shore;
This brave young man, who acted as he shou'd,
Stood firm for Liberty, and England's good:
Smiles at reduction 'mongst the meanest things,
Except low passion, “and the pride of Kings.”

But can Reduction in a noble cause,
Hurt the firm Soul, at least the souls of those
Who bore the frowns of France? and shame to say,
Bear too the frowns of England on half-pay.
Thus, like a whore, the Army learns t'allure,
Robs the brave youth—then kicks him from the door:
Denies the pay for which he bravely fought,
And doubts his honour from his thread-bare coat.

Conscience, of all our physic, works the last;
That pill, Prerogative, how quick it past!

What honest man could hesitate to vote,
When M--- held his knife at Freedom's throat?
And for this Patriot act—these glorious times,
Damn all his Merits—to defend their crimes:
It must be so—while men are Great, not wise,
Doubt their own sight, and borrow other's eyes.

Crowns will deceive the heads on which they're worn;
Sweet is the Rose, but still it wears its thorn:
Tho' set with di'monds, and tho' lin'd with down,
Care plumes at top, and boasts—“Thou'rt all my own.”
Did we but know what Care from Greatness springs,
No Cottager his state would change with Kings.

But here, ye Gods! I ask to stand alone,
And if I cannot starve without one groan,
Retain my honour 'midst such pressing woes,
My courage quit me 'mongst my Country's foes.
Yes—let me starve amongst those friends I've fed,
Or, like a Belisarius, beg my bread.

When that dread day, ye Gods! shall be my fate;
Quit not your servant in his wretched state!
But rather fortify his soul, to bear
What base Oeconomy has mark'd his share.

Riches! avaunt—I ask ye not—be gone;
I'd rather have the words on Churchill's stone;
Pine, shiver, creep on some bleak Heath, and die,
Than stink, like Twitcher to eternity.

There liv'd a Man, by Hull a Member chose;
His name was Andrew Marvel, known to those
Who durst unfold their souls as Patriots shou'd,
When vicious men would thirst for Patriot blood.
An honest Member, but in days of yore,
When Members had much truth, and yet were poor:
When Members durst refuse a venal vote,
And serv'd their Country in a thread-bare coat.
Thus was our Marvel, when his Country's good,
Call'd him to serve her as a Member shou'd:

Serve her he did (as Englishmen should do)
Her good he voted, and, resolv'd, withdrew.
Kept his integrity, in spite of want,
In spite of gold, and Ministerial cant.
In spite of menaces, in spite of lies,
In spite of Scaffolds, and in spite of spies,
Proud of his honour, which was Marvel's pride,
And, rather than he'd pawn it—starv'd—and died.
Thus, Marvel greatly stood to public view;
If such my fate, be such my spirit too.

In these rare days, such Men you rarely know,
What Andrew Marvel was, is Metham now.

The END.

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