Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Empire and Arms, those beaten Themes! disdain,
And dare be Great in an unrival'd Strain!
Cudgel! a Theme unsung by mortal Bard,
Whose Form, mysterious, claims no mean Regard,
Commands thy Flight, and, partial for thy sake,
Will pay kind Criticks for the Pains they take.
O Dennis! hoary Judge of measur'd Phrase,
To my Theme's Weight inspire my tow'ring Lays;
Breathe thro' my daring Breast the Antients' Flame,
And guide me, by thy Rule and Square, to Fame:
Scornful of trifling Wits, I knit my Brow,
And, serious, to thy solemn Grandeur bow;
Do thou my widening Thought, with Judgment, store,
And form a Piece original all o'er:
So shall Pope's ravish'd Locke its Pride resign,
And Hill's bright Star confess a brighter Shine;

Cudgel, alone, shall be the Muse's Care,
And I, even I! th' immortal Laurel wear.

I FEEL! I feel! my swelling Mind possest;
Not such high Raptures heav'd the Sybil's Breast,
When, trembling, near the sacred Shrine she trod,
Big with the Dictates of th' inspiring God.
Vast Images are pictur'd on my Brain,
And Words are wanting, Notions to explain;
Thoughts crowd on Thoughts, as Alps on Alps arise,
And Worlds of Wonder open to my Eyes.

Mount! mount! wild Muse, past Ages wide survey,
And draw down Cudgel to th' incumbent Day;
Tell whence it sprung, its antient Honours show,
Bid wond'ring Nations its Importance know;
Know—and reflect how oft vast Virtues lie
Hid in plain Looks, and shun the proud Man's Eye;

So shall a wholesome Moral crown my Tale,
And raise its Value, tho' it damns its Sale.

Puzzled in mazy Comments, here, I rove—
Facts, of high Consequence, are hard to prove!
Ne'er, with more Warmth, was Subject toss'd on Earth,
Than where and whence our Cudgel had its Birth.
Poets and Churchmen—Criticks in Dispute—
On different Sides, ascertain and confute;
The Reverend, zealous in the Cause of God,
Maintain it, once, was Aaron's budding Rod,
By Miracle preserv'd, a Hebrew Sign,
From which the Priesthood draws its Right Divine;
Its Right of Power, our rebel Wills to sway,
And burn the Unfaithful, who refuse t'obey.
This—Virulent in Wit—the Bards deny,
And dare profanely write, that Priests can lye.

Jacob, they say, old Laban to outwit,
Streaking this Stick, the unwary Patriarch bit;
Since when our Shepherds us, poor Flock! betray—
(The Father of the Faithful taught the way!)
Some hold, who changeful Nature's Depths explore,
The Staff was perfect Man, in Days of Yore:
But as, according to a noted Sage,
Things got new Beings, in a new-born Age,
Our Man, who some three thousand Years lay dead,
Came forth a Staff, but with his old-world Head;
And Heaven this wooden Punishment assign'd,
For his dull Dryness, when of human Kind.

Clear Truth is ne'er, but on one side, discern'd,
Yet e'en its Shadow can confound the Learn'd;
Specious Pretences, oft, the Mind deceive,
And Readers know not what they shou'd believe.

Let quoting Criticks various Judgments pass,
And Volumes of Authorities amass:
By Revelation's Light, we steer our Course,
Nor feel, for differing from the Church, Remorse:
To no Pope's Bulls a blind Obedience pay,
But set Things right, the plain, reforming, way.

O Knight, of noble Name! to whose due Praise,
My lab'ring Muse, now, tunes her tow'ring Lays,
Pardon, if I such Wonders not conceal,
But the dark Mysteries of thy Staff reveal:
Do thou, who best can'st vouch what I rehearse,
Forgive, accept, and patronize, my Verse.

In that sweet Month, when genial Earth grows warm,
And, bounteous, yields, for ev'ry Sense, a Charm;
When smiling Nature shadows ev'ry Grove,
And ev'ry Meadow spreads a Couch for Love;

Calm Night, on Care, her silent Balm had shed,
And, in soft Slumbers, lull'd the pensive Head;
With his fair Consort, on his Bed, reclin'd,
Wakeful Montgomery sooth'd his careful Mind:
By slow Reflexion's Aid, recall'd the Day,
And, deep revolving its past Actions, lay.
“'Tis strange, he said, dear Partner of my Thought,
“What lasting Ills a few short Months have wrought!
“How are the Mighty fal'n? With what Surprize
“Is Gyant Credit sunk to Pigmy Size?
“O Year! that, big in Hope, produc'd such Ill,
“How will thy Wonders British Annals fill?
The Charmer sigh'd, and, sighing, stroak'd his Cheek:
“Comfort, abroad, you good Men vainly seek;
“Each new-born Day brings on some new Distress,
“And, but to merit, is to miss Success.

“Happy the Man, who boasts some inmate Charm,
“Whose Love can Fortune's angry Bolts disarm!
“Tho' Stocks are low, and high-rais'd Hopes prove vain,
“All Praise to Heaven! some solid Joys remain.
“'Tis ours, at least, to share Domestic Bliss—
“'Tis ours—she sigh'd—and prov'd it with a Kiss—
“The Knight, inspir'd, grew glad, and banish'd Care,
Sought Comfort near at hand—and found it There—

Chear'd by the Lustre of her beamy Eyes,
He mark'd the Moon's pale Orb serenely rise;
Soft, thro' the shiny Glass, with shadowy Gleam,
A trembling Radiance shot its silvery Stream;
And, 'twixt the inclosing Curtains, struck the Place,
Where grim-ey'd Cudgel spread its squalid Face:
Starting, the thoughtful Baronet look'd on,
And thus, bespoke the Nymph, who near him shone:

“A precious Jewel was, of late, reveal'd,
“Long, in the Head of an old Staff, conceal'd:
“Its humble Owner, of Plebeian Name,
“At once, enrich'd, bids fair for Pride and Fame.
“What, then, have I to hope, wou'd Fortune smile,
“Of Race long noted! o'er this fruitful Isle?
“Mark well—thou Angel-Guardian of my Side,
(With that He seiz'd, and drew the Curtian wide:)
“Mark well—that Cudgel's most exotick Head,
“Its Cheeks enormous, in vast Convex, spread!
“Why shou'd this be, but to conceal within
“Some Gem—which, if we burst its Brain, we win—
Smiling, the Charmer sought his careful Breast,
And, breathing balmy, lull'd him into Rest.

Scarce had Sleep's silken Fetters bound their Eyes,
When the rous'd Cudgel, quivering with Surprize,

Sadly revolv'd the dreadful Words it heard,
And its near Fate, with rising Morning, fear'd.
Slowly, with tottering Leaps, and aukward Aim,
To the Beds Foot the one-legg'd Mover came:
Sullen it stood, and looking, glary, round,
Thrice knock'd, with wooden Heel, the trembling Ground.
Swift flew ten thousand Sylpheids thro' the Air,
From the strange Sight, to skreen their sleeping Care:
Thick, round her lovely Eyes, in hovering Clings,
Swarming, they close, and shade her with their Wings.
Cudgel, mean while, made desperate, by its Fear,
Up to the Knight, leap'd bold, and view'd him near,
Bow'd in stiff Gravity, and crackly Strain,
And three times knock'd his Lip, but knock'd in vain:
Starting, at length, he rais'd his drowsy Head,
And, Warrior, as he was, felt inward Dread.

“Good God! what horrid Thing is This? he cry'd.
“Be calm, the Cudgel, soberly, reply'd—
“Break not this Angel Sleeper's soft Repose,
“But hear me, gently, my strange Tale disclose:
“Long-wanted Speech your Menace has provok'd,
“And Fear has, almost, my new Accents choak'd.
“Hard the tough Toil! for Tongues so dry as mine,
“To speak like Man's, made glib by moistning Wine
“Yet hear me—and be mov'd to Thoughts of Grace
“Nor rashly dare to spoil my Reverend Face.
“Tho' my Head swells with promissory Grin,
“There's no material Treasure lodg'd within:
“Yet Wealth, more precious, you possess in me,
“Than the proud Wish of boasted Alchymy!”
“In all the best Saints Names—reply'd the Knight—
“Spirit! or Witch! what art thou?—Ho! a Light!

“Hush, whisper'd Cudgel, hear my Story out,
“And if it clear not every dark'ning Doubt,
“Slash me to Pieces—drive me out of Life—
“And mince my Chips with the huge Kitchen-Knife.
“But, Master, let not Courage sink to Fear,
“As from my Lips articulate Sounds you hear:
“In Days of Yore, as famous Authors sing,
“The Speech of Trees was thought no wond'rous Thing;
“Beasts, Birds, and Stones, on just Occasions, spoke:
“Did not sage Baalim his poor Ass provoke?
“And can't I, ev'n amongst your human Kind,
“My Kindred-Heads, in countless Millions, find?”

It spoke—the Knight Attention gave—but what
The Cudgel told him of its wond'rous Fate,

From Earth's first Forming, to King GEORGE's Reign,
Sing Muse, and spare not, in detective Strain:
But here short Respite let the Spirits take,
And, with fresh Vigour, to the Sequel wake.

The End of the First CANTO.

Hiatus ad Finem usque deflendus.

Pythagoras.

Sir R. Montgomery.

The Bubbling Season.

A Coffee-man near Lincoln's-Inn Fields, Anno Dom. 1721.