University of Virginia Library

THE POWERS OF THE PEN.

One Glass of Helicon,—and then
To the quaint Magic of the Pen—
Light toy!—but in a skilful Hand,
More potent than a Sorc'rer's Wand!
Nor Talisman, nor Charm, nor Spell,
Nor all the witching Tricks of Hell,
Can with such Potency controul,
And in Enchantment hold the Soul!
Its Touches can create, transform,
Rouse sleeping Neptune with a Storm;
Or bid the howling tempest cease,
And rock old Ocean into peace:
Can snatch from Time his Scythe at Will,
And make his glowing Wheels stand still;
Pluck from Decay its cank'ring tooth,
And give to Nature constant Youth.
Drawn by old Homer's hand, the Rose
Still on the Cheek of Helen blows.
Her Beauty suffers no Decay,
Nor moulders for the worm a Prey;
Time's chissel cuts no wrinkles in
The velvet smoothness of her skin:
Nor can the Thirst of old Age sip
The dewy Moisture of her lip;
And now her Eyes as brilliant shew,
As Paris saw them long ago.
For tho' her beauteous body must
Have crumbled into native dust,
Yet still her Features live in Song,
Like Hebe, ever fair and young.
Fades the thick leafy grove? the Pen
Can bid its verdure live again,
Can with imagination's dew
Cherish each Leaf to bloom anew,
And call forth greenest Wreaths t'endow
The Patriot's and the Poet's Brow.
In a fine Phrensy of the Soul,
When Poets glance from Pole to Pole,
Bearing on visionary Wings
The shadowy Forms of real Things;
When eagle-plum'd they soar on high
To bring down Virtue from the Sky;
Or cowring low upon the wing,
Vice's grim Form from Hell they bring,
The Pen each Phantom which they bear
Embodies, ere it melts to air;
To each fugacious image gives
A Fixedness, and while it lives
Arrests the fleeting Thought, before
It vanishes, and is no more—
Useless were Study, vain the Toil
Of Sages o'er the midnight oil,
Fruitless their labours to mankind,
The Harvest to themselves confin'd,
If Cadmus' Art did not transmit
Their Knowledge, and embalm their Wit.
Blush then, ungrateful World, that He
Who slit the Pen, and gave it Thee,
Receiv'd no Honours at thy Hands,
Nor 'mongst recorded Merit stands;
While ev'ry puny Artist draws
Misplac'd Rewards, misplac'd Applause.
If the Invention be but new,
No matter what—a Bottle-screw,
A Squib that Fire can frighten out,
A Nostrum for the Stone or Gout:
Balsam, or wonder-working Pill
Invented and prepar'd by Hill.
Whether he gulls You of your Money,
Steeping your Lungs in Chymic Honey,
Or boasts the Art to make the Age
Immortal, by the Use of Sage.
Or Ludgate's Quack ascend the Rostrum,
Vending some pox-expelling Nostrum,
Repairing Manhood to begin
To damn itself afresh by Sin.
Or Ward some Panacëan Pill
Invent, that Death itself can kill.
These, and a thousand Whims like these,
Contriv'd the giddy World to please,
Howe'er they miss the End design'd,
Patents or Premiums always find:
While He, substantial Friend to Men,
Whose Genius first contriv'd the Pen,
Living perhaps got nothing by't,
But Leave to make his Pen and write,
And to Oblivions's Cave his Head
'Mong barren Rubbish thrown, when dead;
No Columns raise their Heads on high,
To bear his Honours to the Sky;
No Marble wantons with his Name,
And consecrates his Worth to Fame.
No other Trophies can I raise,
But a few Feet of Inky Praise.
Far better wou'd it come from You,
Whose Lot is 'mong the favour'd Few,
Who to the Pen owe half their Fame,
While t'other half is Virtue's Claim.
From the full Chaplet which the Nine
Around your Temples fondly twine,
One little Sprig you well may spare
For him, who help'd to place it there:
Your's then the Task to give his due
To him, who gave the Pen to you.
But let not half-bred Critics dare
To scoff profanely at the Pray'r,
Which here I offer for the Goose,
The fav'rite Bird of ev'ry Muse.
When full-ear'd Harvest crowns the Land,
And seems to court the Reaper's Hand,
To ease the Stalk oppress'd with Corn,
May bounteous Ceres, from her Horn,
Scatter about some Grains for thee,
Altho' it cost my Tythe to Me!
Soft as the Down upon thy Breast,
Be ev'ry Leaf that lines thy Nest!
Hid from the truant Schoolboys's eye
In the impervious Thicket lie!
Safe from the Felon Weasel's Theft
The Treasures of thy Nest be left!
Safe be thyself from Serpent's Tongue,
While patient brooding o'er thy Young!
And when thy golden Offspring first
Unfledg'd their shelly Prison burst,
May each rapacious Beast of Prey
Far from the helpless Infants stray!
More she deserves not, that at Rome,
When from the Gall impending Doom
Threaten'd the Capitol, her Clack
Defeated the deep-laid Attack,
Than that by her is rear'd the Quill
Of Pow'r the Thief of State to kill,
Treasons and Plots to undermine,
Boldly to strike the patriot Line,
And, as of old, to be the Health
And Saviour of the Common-wealth.
Annals of recent Date may shew
A Patriot Pen's the deadliest Foe
To pull the Machinations down,
Of Traitors that ensnare the Crown.
Thus when transplanted from the North,
A Thistle half-benumb'd shot forth;
And cherish'd by too warm a Sun
Grew rank with Richness, and begun
To spread its baneful Leaves abroad,
Shelt'ring the swol'n envenom'd Toad;
Forming a Brothel, to recruit
The Brood of Lizard, Adder, Newt;
For Viper, Spider, Eft and Worm,
To lay and hatch their loathsome Sperm,
For all the Vermin-train of Sin
To couple and engender in;
But mortal to each Egg and Seed,
Except the Caledonian Breed.
The Laurel 'gan to droop and fade
Beneath its Acherontic Shade;
The lively Green forsook the Bay,
Which wither'd in its Prime away;
The Olive, which was wont to spread
Its greenest Honours round the Head
Of Peace-restorers, sicken'd now,
Loath to adorn a B---d's Brow.
The Oak reclin'd its reverend Head,
And wept its Use and Glory dead.
—Conquests our Fleets in vain increase,
Only to quit them at a Peace.—
In England's Sickness, while around
Her choicest Flowers bestrew'd the Ground,
Auspicious rose a magic Quill,
Of Pow'r all noxious Weeds to kill;
And from its healing Feathers threw
A Show'r of Heliconian Dew,
Which on the Thistle's Vitals prey'd,
Rotted its Roots, dispell'd its Shade,
Its Fibres crush'd, its Progress stopp'd,
Tho' by the Royal Oak 'twas propp'd,
And now we hope again to see
Blooming the Rose of Liberty.
Or if the Metaphor we quit,
And give plain Sense instead of Wit;
When the proud Thane, on Faction's Throne,
Acted, as England were his own,
Put in, put out, set up, pull'd down,
And govern'd all Things, but the Crown;
To high Appointments Men preferr'd,
That wou'd in Peter's Chair have err'd;
Plann'd Schemes, which (let them have their Due)
No Adversaries had but Two,
Two Triflers, which opposing stood,
Call'd Virtue, and the Public Good.
Ever awake at Nature's Cry,
And the sweet Voice of Liberty,
Stung with the Wrongs his native Land
Long suffer'd from the Spoiler's Hand,
Churchill with indignation rose,
The spreading Mischief to oppose.
Single against an Host of Men
He stood—and all his Arms—a Pen.
With Satire's bitterest Gall he drew,
And held them forth to public View;
Ripp'd ev'ry Corner of their Heart,
And prob'd it in its sorest Part;
And gave to infamy their Name,
Recorded on the Roll of Shame.
Thus proverb'd, scoff'd at, and derided,
Their Kingdom 'gainst itself divided,
And (like old Satan's) cou'd not stand,
But tumbled from its Base of Sand.
For these rich Services from Thee
In the blythe Vale of Liberty
Grows a fresh Garland, that shall bloom
For ever on her Churchill's Tomb!
The Strains of Orpheus cou'd not free,
But half-redeem Eurydice:
And Churchill's Muse cou'd but untie
The twisted Chains of Ministry.
Yet other Ills Mankind beset—
Vice may enmesh us in her Net.
Tho' as a Nation we are free,
Each Individual may be
Subject to Vice's hot Command,
With Magna Charta in his Hand.
How much a Friend to Man were He,
Who cou'd give inward Liberty!
But where shall we explore the Quill,
By Nature taught with wond'rous Skill,
Man's ev'ry Quality to paint,
From Sinners to the purest Saint;
From Peasants to empurpled Kings,
And trace from whence their diff'rence springs:
Actions and Passions to display,
And in their native Robes array:
To point out, with Discernment nice,
Each Humour, Temper, Virtue, Vice;
Her Charter to the Soul unfold,
And how her Freedom she may hold?
For Gifts like these, and Talents rare,
What Pen with Shakespear's shall compare?
Which from a Phœnix' golden Wing
The Muses pluck'd, and taught to sing;
Steep'd in the Quintessence of Thought,
And to their fav'rite Poet brought:
And when the magic Quill they slit,
Within it shut the God of Wit;
Who with his Station pleas'd (for He
With the politest Gallantry,
Is all Compliance, and will close
With every Frolic they propose)
With lavish Hand his Gifts bestow'd,
Which thro' the inky Channel flow'd;
And all his Wisdom he display'd,
To grace the Pen the Muses made.
From this frank bounty of the God,
Wherever human Foot e'er trod,
Whatever Path, whatever Road,
In Quest of Happiness' Abode,
Or seeking the sequester'd Cell,
Where Virtue and her Children dwell;
Whether the destin'd Journey be,
O'er the steep Hills of Royalty;
Or Chance, or Choice, has fix'd our Doom,
Bewilder'd in its thickest Gloom,
The humbler Vale of Life to tread,
By Error's twinkling Lamp misled,
Shakespear holds sorth Apollo's Ray,
To light the Pilgrim on his Way.
And if with Life's full Load opprest,
Breathless and faint he sinks to Rest,
At sultry Noon, or drizzly Eve,
Strength for his Journey to receive:
Whether by Helicon he sit,
To taste the sparkling Stream of Wit,
Or Humour's living Waters drink,
Reclin'd on Aganippe's Brink:
The sprightly Beverage to bring,
And tend upon the sacred Spring,
Shakespear a Servitor hath made,
A Mountain of the waiting Trade,
Who'd weigh a Dozen, at the least,
Such Skips as wait at City Feast,
From whom an Army might be cut,
Of Horse and Foot, for Lilliput;
—'Tis Falstaff—Lo! there stands plumb Jack!
Ready to ease each Trav'ller's Back!
Himself will undertake to bear
Their Cares on his sleek Back (if Care
Can stick her Claws and fasten there)
If He unfolds not every Frown,
And shakes the Load of Sorrow down.
These were the Gifts of Shakespear's Pen,
In vain we hope such Gifts again:
Eor Nature, various in her Scheme,
Intends not all her Works the same;
And hence, of Men and Pens we see
An infinite Variety.
She strikes a general Line of Man,
And we must fill it, as we can.
Yet search the World's great Circle through,
Diff'rence you'll find 'twixt ev'ry Two:
Thus from one Line may be exprest
Atlas's Load, or Chloe's Breast.
Excuse a Specimen or two,
Altho' 'tis plain the Fact is true.
Poets, you know, are prating Things,
And scrape to Rags their Fiddle-strings.
Nature the Outline drew, and Pitt
Fill'd it with Eloquence and Wit,
Sir Arius chose another Whim,
And into ev'ry Joint and Limb
He stuff'd Iniquity for Marrow,
Like Offals in a Butcher's Barrow;
With Wit sufficient to blaspheme,
Whene'er Religion is the Theme,
With Learning, like another Rake,
A classic Scavenger to make.
Volpone was of another Mold,
Tasted, saw, smelt, and felt, but Gold.
Let France, or Spain, no matter which,
Fair England buy, so he grows rich;
Tho' Riches serve him but to buy
The golden Chains of Slavery,
Yet he, tame Wretch, wou'd rather be
Rich and a Slave, than poor and free.
Twitcher in evil Hour was made,
In Form another Knave of Spade,
A fleshly Incubus, not Man,
Cousin to Monster Caliban;
Thro' the grim Features of his Face
The Blackness of his Soul we trace.
Folly and Sin once play'd at Dice
For this infatuate Piece of Vice;
But throwing equal to a Hair,
It was agreed the Prize to share;
Hence, contrary to Scripture Rule,
He serves Two Masters, Knave and Fool.
—Enough of Instances—for four
Are full as valid, as fourscore.
So not less various is the Pen
In Genius, than the Sons of Men.—
Tho' to one Goose the Quills belong,
Some may distil mellifluous Song,
Or lightly touch the Traits of Wit,
While their dull Brothers are more fit
For Aldermen to draw a Mark,
Or do the Drudgery of a Clerk.
By dulness some are form'd t'effuse
The qualms of Langborne's vapour'd Muse;
To write and write, and sing and sing,
A mere Church-bell, ding-dong, dong-ding.
Some into Murphy's Service bought,
To steal the Wit of France are taught.
The Pilf'rer we may well acquit,
Who robs our enemies of Wit,
Steal on, and leave them not one Grain,
T'o'er-reach us at a Peace again!
Some bastard Quills, Block-makers bred,
In Stevens' Hand may write a Head;
Or, taught the Science of Grimace,
May serve a Foote, to write a Face.
If some, more heavy than the rest,
Doz'd in the Wing, e'en from the Nest,
And when the Parent Bird essay'd
To fly, ne'er lent their feathery Aid,
But lumpish in her Pinions slept;
These are in Whitehead's Standish kept;
Where without Signs of Life they dream,
Like the fat Weeds on Lethe's Stream,
Save once a Year they stir abroad,
Half-waken'd, for a Birth-day Ode.
Those Quills which, moulting from the Wing,
Fall into Impudence's Spring,
Are by the Cits, that ev'ry day
To drink the Waters pass that Way,
Pick'd up, and from these Pens they bring
Addresses, to affront the King.
Others, of stiff and formal Cut,
Scholastic Pedantry hath put
In Johnson's hand, prepar'd to write
Ramblers, which Phœbus wou'd affright;
For though they speak true Sterling Sense,
BROBDINGNAG words must give Offence;
Or testy Prefaces to draw,
Nature to try by Critic-law;
And to decree, the Trial done,
'Gainst Nature, and her fav'rite Son,
That Shakespear all at random wrote,
Witty by Chance, but dull in Thought;
Dupe to a Quibble, or a Jest,
The worst of Poets and the best:
A very Stoic to express
The Woes of Greatness in Distress,
At Lear's Fall who will may weep,
Johnson will laugh, or fall asleep,
To shew his Sense profound—but shews
Tho' his Head's full, his Heart is froze,
That Learning cannot teach to feel,
Nor Shakespear move a Man of Steel.
—Gods! that he durst abuse his Betters,
Because he knows the Criss-cross Letters,
And all the Concords that are hid,
Beneath a Grammar's Coverlid!
—Durst as a Fool the Poet brand,
Whom God had taught to read his Hand!
—That Pride should carry him so far,
To summon Nature to the Bar!
While he, like Bradshaw on the Bench,
Treats her like any common Wench,
Turns all her Purity to Stains,
And hangs her up in Critic-Chains!
A Dictionary's small Pretence
To warrant such high Insolence—
A learned Mummy might explain
(If you but well embalm the Brain)
Words and their various Sense—might shew
A modern Critic means—a Foe;
Warburton—Learning turn'd to Curds—
Johnson—a Catacomb of Words.
But let the Muse, to Candour true,
Give Johnson what is Johnson's Due—
When with unsparing Hand he shed
A Cloud of Faults on Shakespear's Head,
He with a Master's Skill unfurl'd
Some folded Beauties to the World;
Remov'd the Veil which Time had drawn,
And gave him with new Day to dawn;
With skilful Hand expung'd the Blot
Rais'd from the Unities forgot,
Obscurity of Sense he clears,
But does not understand his Tears.
Thus with his Faults his Merits mix,
That Candour knows not where to fix,
But binds the Thorns up with the Rose,
And blots the Praise which she bestows.
There are, of happier Mold than these,
Pens that instruct us, while they please—
Such are to Colman's Hand assign'd,
To paint the Manners of Mankind,
To mend the Vices of the Age,
Sham'd by its Image on the Stage.
Such are the Quills which Thornton draws,
Gay Moralist, in Virtue's Cause;
Who, with the Feather of his Wit,
Anoints the Part that's Folly-bit,
And tickles while he probes the Wound,
Leaving us better than he found.
Such, with Thalia's Compliments,
The Genius of the Stage presents
To our fam'd Roscius, to supply
The modern Dearth of Comedy.
Begs his Acceptance of a Pen,
And hopes his Favours now and then;
And adds, He never can comply
Roscius should lay his Buskin by.
And such, altho' you will not own
That to Apollo you are known,
Are those he lately sent to You,
All-dripping with Castalian Dew.
The lightest Feather in the Wing
Of those Etherial Birds, that sing
And flutter in the genial Ray
Of the young God who rules the Day,
Which have in Charge from him to fly
To the Choice Spirits of the Sky;
Packets of Humour to import
To the gay Sons of Comus Court,
This Feather, lately, from the Sky
Came on a special Embassy.
Jove had sent Hermes to invite
To blue Olympus' airy Height,
Each God and Goddess to a Feast,
Nectar and Wit, in highest Taste—
Apollo had observ'd before,
That Comus got not one Encore;
That all Attempts to please were vain,
The Gods look'd grave, or sneer'd Disdain;
Better to entertain each Guest,
With hum'rous Tale and witty Jest.
To furnish Elegance of Mirth,
He shot this fav'rite Quill to Earth,
And fix'd it in the Hand of Sterne,
The finest Strokes of Wit to learn.
Tutor'd in the Shandean art,
So well it play'd the Jester's Part,
That Jove, to have of Wit his Fill,
Not well contented with the quill,
Sent Hermes down the other day,
To fetch its Tutor too away,
And plac'd him in the Chair of Wit
Which Comus was compell'd to quit—
The rambling Muse late chanc'd to stop,
Where it was written o'er a Shop,
“Pens sold of ev'ry Size and Sort,
“Fit for the Country, or the Court”—
Curious she cast her Eyes around,
When, lo! one gaudy Quill she found,
Trick'd with all Colours that are seen
Dangling about a Tragic Queen,
And ask'd its Price—The Shopman bow'd,
And instant in its Praise grew loud—
“This Pen on every Theme can write,
“None is too heavy, none too light;
“And what it writes cannot miscarry,
“For it is a la mode de Paris.
“'Tis fraught with Learning's various Store,
“Such Wit!—Apollo scarce has more—
“And fell, as Critics all agree,
“From the wing'd Heel of Mercury.
“Of Heroes, Demi-Gods, and Kings,
“In Epic-Tragic Strains it sings,
“And not a Heroe of them all,
“But in heroic Verse must fall:
“In Interjections wise, can draw
“The true French Pathos of Helas!
“Make fine set Speeches full of oh's!
“And all the Symphony of Woes—
“Can by the Foot sob, whine, and sigh,
“Tho' too polite to make you cry.
“Sometimes, so various is this Pen,
“'Twill deign to write of common Men;
“Will tell the Feats of Tommy Thumb,
“As well as those of Fee-fa-fum—
“Histories, Novels, Odes, or Tales,
“As the fantastic Whim prevails.
“Some Faults indeed it has beside,
“Which Honour will not let me hide.
“Trust it in no religious Work,
“It is an Infidel, or Turk;
“And will maintain it is not fit,
“God shou'd presume t'affront a Wit
“With Revelation, and to doubt
“Whether he'd Sense to find it out:
“Another Candide it will write,
“To prove that Nought that is is right.
“—But, Madam, it would ill become
“Me to advise—and I am dumb,
“When I have added, that Voltaire
“Writes with its Fellow, to a Hair—”
Nature, who at the Instant came,
Blushing to hear his hated Name,
Said, “Buy it not, my Child, if You
“Wou'd give to Me, or God his Due.”
High on a Shelf above the rest,
As nourish'd in a nobler Nest,
Plum'd like the Bird of Jove, was laid
A Quill, whose Worth was well display'd.
“We cannot praise this Quill too much,
“Quick, as Ithuriel's Spear, its Touch,
“Can strip the thick Disguise of Art,
“And reach the Secrets of the Heart,
“Ourselves unto ourselves can shew,
“And teach the Passions how to grow
“With native Vigour; unconfin'd
“By those vile Shackles, which the Mind
“Wears in the School of Art, whose Plan
“May make a May'r, but not a Man.
“Can trace the hidden Source, whence springs
“Subjects Allegiance unto Kings;
“Can from the Code of Nature draw
“An Institute of moral Law.
“And when with daring Flight of Thought,
“Religion's purest Altar's sought,
“All vain are Tortures, Racks, and Wheels,
“'Tis Reason only that it feels;
“It dares the Whore of Rome oppose,
“Dealing Damnation to her Foes:
“Yet will no Heresies admit,
“To gratify the Pride of Wit,
“But Truth's straight path intent to keep,
“Earnest is each Research, and deep;
“And where it is its Fate to err,
“Honest its Error, and sincere—
“There were but two of these Pens made,
“Since Writing has commenc'd a Trade,
“And we have only this to shew,
“It's Mate was purchas'd by Rousseau.”—
Here Nature—“in his Page I live,
“And all his Errors must forgive”—
Then down her Cheek a silent Tear
Stole, for she holds this Fav'rite dear,
Which seem'd to say, “I wish that He
“Honour'd the Son of God, like Me!”
She wip'd it, and address'd the Muse—
“You will the Liberty excuse,
“'Tis less polite, perhaps, than true,
“But this was never meant for You,
“This Pen is better laid aside,
“Which none, besides Rousseau, can guide.
“The Pen you have can tag a Rhime,
“Buy new ones when you write Sublime—
“But use your old one to engage
“The printing Dunces of the Age.”—
The Muse a Glance now chanc'd to drop
Upon the Sweepings of the Shop,
And here a Pen so black she spy'd,
That the Jet whiten'd by its side.
Poetic Fiction wou'd have swore,
Some Bird of Hell this plume had wore,
Which floats on th'Acherontic Flood
And broods in black Cocytus' mud.
(And Fiction had in this been sooth,
And only feign'd poetic Truth;
For where this Feather took its birth,
Is but the Acheron of Earth—)
She ask'd its Qualities and Worth,
And thus the Penman set them forth.
“East of the Pile, whose flaming Head
“Was rais'd the horrid Tale to spread,
“How in old Time this righteous Nation
“Suffer'd a partial Conflagration,
(For Men inscribe on Brass and Steel,
The Evils which they chance to feel;
While all the Blessings to them sent,
May die without a Monument)
“There lies a Spot of blasted Ground,
“For Fish, nor less for Tongue renown'd,
“For Fish becarrion'd with Fumette
“And Words more highly season'd yet;
“So foul the Words here us'd to sell,
“They give the Fish a tainted Smell.
“HERE Catachresis keeps a School,
“And teaches to abuse by Rule;
“Sarcasmus, is the Usher here,
“And lectures on the Art to Sneer;
“Here those are complimenting Names,
“Which wou'd breed Duels at St. James',
“With D---g and B---h the Welkin rings,
“And Whore and Rogue are civil things;
“Hither, his native Turn the same,
“The Bird of Malediction came,
“Nycticorax—'tis hard to tell
“What most allur'd—the fœtid smell
“Of fishy Entrails—or the sound
“Of Oaths and Curses eccho'd round.
“It matters not—he croak'd an Oath,
“He wou'd be Scavenger of both:
“With Garbage now and Guts begirt,
“He struts, Lord Paramount of Dirt.
“In his dark Wing this Feather sprung,
“And well can croak, but never sung.
“The Bird convey'd to ev'ry Part
“Its Nourishment with so much Art,
“That all its Feathers are replete,
“With what it heard and what it eat;
“And, such the Bent which Nature gives,
“In this Quill all the Raven lives!
“Fill it with any Kind of Juice,
“It trickles out in coarse Abuse.
“Shou'd it attempt a tuneful Note,
“The harshest Discord fills its Throat.
“But if a Practice fair you hold,
“For want of Argument to scold,
“To measure Wit with brazen Rule,
“And call each Genius—Blockhead—Fool—
“To Spatter with all Grubstreet's Dirt
“The Wits, by whom your Envy's hurt;
“To kick and fling the Mud about,
“Lest People shou'd not find you out;
“To act the Flea, in spite of Scorn,
“And prove, by biting, that you're born;
“Or shou'd your Humour more incline,
“To conjure Verse, without the Nine,
“Heigh! Presto! Pass!—the Poem's done
“Ere others cou'd have well begun—
“Say—wou'd you chuse to sketch at leisure
“Encyclopœdia's for your Pleasure;
“Or on a dull November Day,
“Scribble an Iliad, or a Play,
“A Gross of Comedies or two,
“For want of something else to do—
“If aught like this your humour be,
“This Pen will suit you to a T.
“Some of the qualities I've named
“Might make some nicer folks asham'd;
“Yet in an Age corrupt as this,
“Pens of this Sort are not amiss,
“For Gain thro' Quills like this may flow,
“(And Gain's the only thing you know)
“As Scavengers thro' Dirt grow rich,
“And Doctors thrive by P---x and Itch,
“So this foul Pen some Profit gives,
“We need no Proof while Kenrick lives.”
The Muse here gently bent the knee,
And curt'sy'ng an Apology,
Replied—“for me, who will may buy't—
“I sooner wou'd forget to write;
“An Iliad conjur'd with a Touch,
“Must be too little, or too much!
“Its other Talent—to abuse—
“I leave to those who write Reviews”—
While she prepar'd to bid Adieu,
The Shopman on the Compter threw
A Pen, which to the Stump was worn,
And all its downy Honours torn.
She ask'd (as shopping Ladies do,
That on a Morning's ramble go)
Its price—not that she meant to buy,
But just for Curiosity—
“What call ye this? this Stump—a Pen?
“It cannot be”—then ask'd again,
The Shopman, as a Shopman ought,
When Goods are cheapen'd but not bought,
With Anger redden'd, and replied,
“Dear Madam, you were ne'er so wide;
“This Pen, (as many Things you know,
“Are ill defin'd by outward shew)
“This Pen, however maim'd it looks,
“Has given the World some charming Books.
“Few Pens distill their Verse so clear,
“So pleasing to a Lady's Ear—
“Its Tragedies wou'd do you Good,
“They raise no Fever in the Blood;
“Just make it simmer, never boil,
“With Lullabies as smooth as Oil—
“—But what may chiefly recommend
“To some, it can abuse a Friend,
“Can on an only Sister rail,
“Shou'd her superior Charms prevail;
“With Envy stung will blot each Grace,
“That revels in a Rival's Face,
“Will tear the Laurel from her Head,
“And place a Nettle in its stead;
“In Sisters Blood its point will stain,
“And wash it with false Tears again,
“As oft, when murder'd Victims bleed,
“They loudest weep who did the Deed.
“—‘But how to this maim'd Fragment worn?
“And whence its native Plumage torn?’
“The Shopman archly smil'd a Jest,
“But urg'd again, the Truth confest.
“Since all must out then I must own,
“This Quill has various Service known;
“At first it serv'd a Lord—no less—
“And pick'd the Teeth of H---
“Who in a frolick Mood, and gay,
“(The first of April was the Day)
“This boon, with quibbling Compliment,
“To his beloved Mason sent—.”
How wretched of that quill the Fate,
Which falling from its high Estate,
Of picking Teeth of Noblemen,
Becomes a hungry Poet's Pen!
From Feast to Fast abruptly sent,
Parnassus' Calendar's all Lent!
How diff'rent now its Fare! how hard
To leave a Lord, and serve a Bard!
Instead of Custards, Jellies, Curds,
An olio of fantastic Words,
A Feast with nothing to be eat,
But a confection'd Alphabet,
Where Consonants with Vowels close,
A vocal Pudding to compose,
The Raisins these, the Suet those.
And where with Liquids Mutes combine,
To cook a Dinner for the Nine,
Farewell, ye Dainties rich and rare!
Farewell the high Apician Fare!
Farewell Ragouts and Fricasee!
The Calapash and Calapee!
Farewell ye Palate-pleasing Cates!
Ye Conserves! Sweetmeats! Pines and Dates!
The Fruit preserv'd! the candy'd Spice!
And sugar'd Cream congeal'd to Ice!
Farewell, all Delicacies high,
Which either India can supply!
And ev'ry well-concocted Mess,
The Art of Cookery can dress,
Farewell!—that Quill shall feast no more
Its dainty Occupation's o'er—
For luscious Fruits, and sav'ry Herbs,
Its Dinner now is Nouns and Verbs;
And Words for Things—aye, there's the Rub—
A Simile for Syllibub.
For Vermicelli-Soup, a Sink
Of Gall and Coppras-Broth call'd Ink;
For Macaroni, Turtle, Ham,
The Nothing of an Epigram;
For Ven'son, Pudding, Tart and Pye,
Th'insipid Pap of Elegy.
For Viands dress'd in daintiest Mode,
An empty Sonnet, or an Ode;
Instead of Trifle sweet when real,
Insipid Trifles all ideal.
For May'ral Feasts it now must cater,
A Libel, Pasquinade, or Satire,
And dress'd upon Prosodia's Thumb,
Tropes, Figures, Allegories come—
The choicest Bit to Table brought,
Is now and then a Merry-Thought.
To render its Condition worse,
It feels all Tantalus's Curse;
It writes of Jove's ambrosial Feasts,
His Nectar draws, but never tastes;
The Luxury of Gods describes,
Yet Draughts of Ink alone imbibes.
And while it paints Olympian Treats,
Of the Camelion's Dish it eats;
For Poems are (as all can tell)
Ideas scollop'd in their Shell;—
Mere airy Nothing void of Taste,
Thoughts form the Pye, and Words the Paste.
Hence ev'ry Bard, who raptur'd sings,
And descants on the Muses' springs,
Or Phœbus' sacred Hill—wou'd quit,
These spacious Manors of his Wit,
And give up one or all of these—
Parnassus for a Piece of Cheese—
Wou'd freely Helicon resign,
To get a single Glass of Wine.
And Aganippe too shou'd pack,
To purchase him a Cup of Sack!
Castalia too, thy chrystal Well,
He'd for a Pot of Porter sell!—
—But stop, Digression! hie thee back!
Muse, seek thy long forsaken Track;
And let the Shopman now resume
The Story of this Proteus Plume.
“—M*s*n the Toothpick to a Pen
“Converting, sent it now and then,
“On Dedication's Velvet Feet,
“His own Mæcenas Lord to greet.
“Nor vain the Greetings—now he feels
“Preferment spanieling his Heels;
“And thrives so well (what Luck some Men!)
“He needs a Toothpick more than Pen—
“And now, an easy Fortune made,
“Has laid aside the Scribbling Trade.
“His Pen to me devolv'd—for I
“The cast-off Pens of Authors buy.
Sick of the Shopman's Tale, by chance
The Muse had thrown a Side-long Glance,
Upon a Form of Dædal Mould,
Which glitter'd in a Frame of Gold;
By Freedom's ensigns round her Throne,
The Fair was for Britannia known;
Her right Hand held a Pen to view,
With Plumage of Ethereal Blue—
She fain wou'd buy it, but was told—
“That sacred Pen must not be sold;
“'Tis the PALLADIUM of this Isle—
“And carries Magic in its Style,
“Of pow'r to check each Wrong that springs
“From K---, or Favourites of Kings.
“With this at Freedom's early Dawn,
“Was our fam'd Magna Charta drawn;
“With this, to curb Tyrannic Rage,
“Our Sidney wrote his Patriot Page;
“With this, to keep his Country free,
“WILKES fights the Cause of Liberty.
A Sigh that would not be suppress'd,
Heav'd softly in the Muse's breast
At Wilkes's Name!—in plaintive Tone
She wish'd his Sufferings were her own!
Felt Freedom's Ardour fire her Blood,
And panted for the publick Good!
In secret wish'd it were her Lot,
To crush the arbitrary Scot;
To drive the Thane, and all his Breed,
To starve on t'other Side the Tweed;
To shake to dust his Lairdly Chain,
And cherish Liberty again!
—Reflections came—these Longings fled—
And Gratitude came in their Stead;
The Patriot Curse gave Place to Pray'r,
And Thanks succeeded to Despair;
Thanks to that Pow'r, whose gracious Will
Appointed Good to combat Ill!
What tho' among his fairest Works,
The Seed of Dissolution lurks,
Yet he has with a Parent's Care,
Provided Antisepics rare;
And thrown in Balsams mild and bland,
To glove Decay's corrosive Hand.
To pois'nous Phangs and arrowy Stings,
Soft sheathing Antidotes he brings!
When first the brood of Vipers sprung,
And Venom ting'd the Aspic Tongue,
The fatal Consequence to foil,
He gave a Medicinal Oil.
When Poison taints the gen'ral Weal,
He lends an Antidote to heal.
Thus when, the Nation to chastise,
His Justice bade Sejanus rise,
With Rods of Iron to enslave,
His Mercy sent a Wilkes to save!—
—Give then, fair Liberty! thy Son
The Freedom he for others won!
While ruminating thus the Muse,
The Scope of Nature's Laws pursues,
The Shopman ev'ry now and then
Urg'd her to purchase Mason's Pen,
Till thus at length—“Sir, you'll agree,
“This Stump can serve no End with me;
“Servants to Lords have liv'd too well,
“With humble Cottagers to dwell.
“Quills us'd on Lordly Teeth to dine,
“Wou'd brook but ill to feed on mine—
“Too hot for Tooth pick this I hold,
“And for a Muse's Pen too cold.
Still there remains a scribbling Race,
Bastard Apostles, with the Face
Of holy Paul, but not the heart,
Who can, in Jest, play Judas' Part.
They swear he knew but half his Trade,
Or he more Money wou'd have made,
When he his gracious Master sold
For Silver, when he might have Gold.
They market better, better know
His Value, than to sell him so;
And, while Gain rolls her golden Tide,
Can in their gilded Chariots ride.
With her good Leave the Muse shall sing
The Origin from whence they spring.
Once in a gloomy Church-Yard fell,
From Birds that in old Yew Trees dwell,
A Show'r of Feathers, black as Night,
Of bloody Murders fit to write.
More dull they could not be, nor grave,
Tho' hatch'd within Trophonius' Cave.
Doctor Expositor, whose Head,
Like an old Church, was roof'd with Lead,
Gather'd the Quills as they came down,
And hurried with his Load to Town.
Then hemm'd—and call'd, with Voice profound,
His blockhead Family around.
The Dunces now conven'd; he said,
“Your Fortunes, now, my Boys, are made;”—
Then from beneath his Cassock drew
The sable Feathers forth to View;
Then thus—“Altho' your Brains are Lead,
“These Quills, my Lads, will get you Bread;
“Scripture's your Point—build on that Base,
“And eat the Bread of Paraphrase—
“Perplex, read wrong, and then read right,
“Make dark, or you cannot make light:
“Let Poets wear their Crown of Bays,
“A Belly-full surpasseth Praise—
“The Miracle of Loaves shall You
“Exhibit to the World anew;
“And of the Bible 'twill be said,
“Each Chapter is a Loaf of Bread.”
Then to each Reverend Dunce he gave
A Quill—they, silent as the Grave
Respectful bow'd their Thanks—to speak,
Requires that Folks shou'd be awake—
Fawkes, Howard, Rider, each had one,
And on their Work of Words began.
'Mong fifty Scripture-Merchants more,
Who sell the Word they should adore,
Our Doctor did his Quills divide,
Whose Names the Muse, with honest Pride,
Disdains to write, but may be seen
In every thorough-fare obscene,
Joining Apostles' Names to Rock's
Mixing Religion with the Pox,
And (while each serious Christian grieves)
Hanging our Saviour between Thieves.
One Quill he singled from the rest,
The Offspring of another Nest,
Which Sternhold's old Goose bred, and which,
Besides the Paraphrastic Itch,
Was portion'd with one Talent rare,
That fell not to its Brethren's Share.
It was, to stretch what David writ,
Dull Version's Tenter-hooks to fit,
Altho' the Stuff with stretching crack,
Like Heretics upon the Rack,
This for his Fav'rite he reserv'd;
His Fav'rite no less Boon deserv'd;
With this the Pulpit-fop Saint Dodd,
Cuts Penn'orths of the Word of God.
And lo! th'Event! with Linen clean,
And Wigs that wou'd become a Dean,
With Chariot some come forth to View,
And prove the Prophecy was true.
The Muse, who never lov'd the Town,
Ne'er flaunted in brocaded Gown;
Pleas'd thro' the hawthorn'd Vale to roam,
Or sing her artless Strain at Home,
Bred in plain Nature's simple Rules,
Far from the Foppery of Schools,
Loaths the pert Coxcombs whom she meets,
Parading up and down the Streets,
And (such a witless Maid is she!)
Tir'd of these Authors' Company,
To trip it homeward now wou'd chuse,
Before the Fall of Evening-dews.
But stay, my Muse, a Moment stay!
A little Moment—while I lay
One other scribbling Class before Y'e,
No Names—but you shall have their Story.
Stay—for the Coursers of the Sun
Much of their Journey have to run,
And we shall end our Tale before
Old Time has turn'd his Glass once more.
Behold yon plumed Troop advance!
All feather like the Fops of France!
Between them this small Diff'rence stands,
Those plume their Hats, but these their Hands.
The Phrase of Peace they speak 'tis true,
But nothing have with Peace to do.
Good Humour in their Face they bear,
But tho' they smile, and smile, beware—
Beware, my artless Muse, nor deem
All are thy Friends, that friendly seem.
Suspect them while they smoothly greet,
—They murder ev'ry Muse they meet;
Tho' sweet as Phœbus' Lute her Lay,
The pretty innocent they slay.
To form a Shade their Plumes combine
Lest Summer's Sun, with Ray benign,
Shou'd warm young Genius into Bloom,
And scent the Valley with Perfume.
It is not that they hate a Rose,
—But the poor Souls have lost their Nose—
And Envy never yet could bear
Those Blessings which she cannot share.
Each Moon their Trump they blow, and sit
High Arbiters of Sense and Wit;
And in the Name of “Candour scrawl,
“With desp'rate Hands, and Hearts of Gall.”
Poison'd the Ink within their Stand,
Deadly the Feathers in their Hand;
On the Stymphalides they grew,
And butcher in each Month's Review.
Sunk twenty Fathom under Ground,
Paper'd with Title-pages round,
A Dungeon lies; and plac'd before
Stand Printer's Dev'ls to guard the Door;
To this these envious Fiends resort,
To hold their Inquisition-Court.
Fix'd in the Middle of the Room,
A glimmering Lamp reflects a Gloom;
Clust'ring above hang Scalping Knives,
By Dulness edg'd 'gainst Poets' Lives.
The Skin of many an Author's Head,
Victims that at their Altars bled,
Dangle in Parcels at the Top,
Like dry'd Leaves in a Druggist's Shop.
Curious the Signs by which they know,
Whether a Work is good, or no.
For these all-judging Critic Elves
Form no Opinion from themselves;
Mechanic Judges of the Brain,
As Weatherglasses are of Rain.
Perch'd on a Column of Reviews,
Sits a grave Owl, and seems to muse;
And when they bring home Works of Wit,
She's taken with a hooting-fit.
An ideot Ass gives Evidence,
By braying, of the Approach of Sense.
And oft as from a Morning's Roam
They bring a Work of Genius home,
The Scalps with Sympathy will shake,
Rustling like Serpents in a Brake;
For Brother Scalps they seem to feel,
And tremble at the Scalper's Steel.
The slouching Ears, which Midas wore
(Infamous Mark!) in time of Yore,
Are nail'd unto their Speaker's Chair;
And when a Grub-street Piece draws near,
Erect and lively they appear,
And give each Sign of Joy they can,
To ev'ry modern piping Pan.
In the dark Corners of the Room,
Natur'd to rankle in a Gloom,
(Of the true Pandæmonium Breed,
From Lucifer they had the Seed)
Huge Serpents fold their Train, and lurk,
Judges of each religious Work,
Whose Merit is discern'd by this—
If Orthodox, the Serpents hiss—
But when an Infidel comes in,
Atheist, or Deist, Friend to Sin,
Pleas'd, as in Sport, the Snakes unfold
The wreathings of their Necks of Gold;
And then the Critics know their Cue,
And with the Serpents' Taste review.
Tho' Phœbus' Self the Numbers sung,
He could not charm their sland'rous Tongue;
And tho' thy Song as his was pure,
Thy Honour were not then secure;
For they with Fingers rude wou'd tear
The wreathed Chaplet from thy Hair,
And, urg'd by Envy's stern Command,
Wou'd break the Lyre that grac'd thy Hand.
But why so grave, dear Curre?—impart—
I know the Friendship of your Heart—
You tremble to behold your Friend
Dare, like young Phaeton, ascend
The airy Chariot of the Brain,
Unskill'd the winged Steeds to rein;
And, while the rapid Axle glows,
Drive it across the Critics' Nose,
Careless, tho' they with Vengeance foam,
As if in slipper'd Ease at Home.
Thanks—but your Fears are vain my Friend—
Tho' I like Phaeton shou'd end,
And from the whirling Chariot fall,
Still with the Critics I may crawl.