 | A Collection of Original Poems |  |
FORTUNE.
A Rhapsody.
On the wave of fortune tost,
See the man of merit lost;
In the self-same point of time,
Infamy her summit climb;
Infamy with favour crown'd,
Meets respect from all around:
Shines the wretch in fortune's glare?
He is valiant, wise, and fair.
See the man of merit lost;
In the self-same point of time,
Infamy her summit climb;
Infamy with favour crown'd,
Meets respect from all around:
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He is valiant, wise, and fair.
Fortune, wherefore are we still
Dupes to thy inconstant will?
Wherefore must we always pay
Homage, to thy fickle sway?
While virtue, of celestial race,
Pines neglected in disgrace;
And vice assumes the plunder'd robe,
Imposing thus on half the globe.
Dupes to thy inconstant will?
Wherefore must we always pay
Homage, to thy fickle sway?
While virtue, of celestial race,
Pines neglected in disgrace;
And vice assumes the plunder'd robe,
Imposing thus on half the globe.
Point thy darling!—and the croud
Cringe, and speak his praise aloud;
Object, once, of public hate!—
Goddess smile—he's good and great—
Mounted on thy giddy wheel,
A Cecil, Pelham—what you will—
In rich alcoves no vice can dwell.
While heav'n has no curse in store,
Nor hell such guilt—as being poor.
Cringe, and speak his praise aloud;
Object, once, of public hate!—
Goddess smile—he's good and great—
Mounted on thy giddy wheel,
A Cecil, Pelham—what you will—
In rich alcoves no vice can dwell.
While heav'n has no curse in store,
Nor hell such guilt—as being poor.
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Few patrons stoop to ease her care,
When needy merit drops a tear;
For proof—see Butler's shade arise,
And awful stand before your eyes;
Butler, the quintessence of wit,
Of humour, sense, and arch conceit;
Who for the bounty of a—Charles—
Might just as well have wrote like—Quarles.
What hopes! when ev'n Dryden fail'd,
Dryden, who ev'ry Muse excell'd!
Whose matchless genius all commend,
While living, scarce could find—a friend—
Nor knew we where his ashes lay,
Till Sheffield dignified his clay;
Who proud, tho' late, such worth to own,
Mark'd with his name the Parian stone,
And thus immortaliz'd his own.
When needy merit drops a tear;
For proof—see Butler's shade arise,
And awful stand before your eyes;
Butler, the quintessence of wit,
Of humour, sense, and arch conceit;
Who for the bounty of a—Charles—
Might just as well have wrote like—Quarles.
What hopes! when ev'n Dryden fail'd,
Dryden, who ev'ry Muse excell'd!
Whose matchless genius all commend,
While living, scarce could find—a friend—
Nor knew we where his ashes lay,
Till Sheffield dignified his clay;
Who proud, tho' late, such worth to own,
Mark'd with his name the Parian stone,
And thus immortaliz'd his own.
The Bard, who thousands counts a year,
Writes well—much better—if a peer—
A Virgil he, or at the least,
A man of true distinguish'd taste.
Writes well—much better—if a peer—
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A man of true distinguish'd taste.
Lords, ladies, knights and squires debate,
His fame, around, to undulate;
Wherefore? because 'mongst folks of fashion,
And men of elevated station,
True merit's an exotic plant,
A white bear caught—in the Levant.
For, ah! how very rare to see
A C---ld, or Orrery!
When these were born, Dame Fortune slept,
Or haply, the fond Muse had wept,
To've seen that worth, now rais'd so high,
Buried in low obscurity.
Tho' studious dullness to reward,
Fortune is sometimes off her guard;
And hence it was in lucky hour,
When she forgot t'exert her pow'r,
A Stanhope slyly stole to earth,
Or happy Littleton had birth.
His fame, around, to undulate;
Wherefore? because 'mongst folks of fashion,
And men of elevated station,
True merit's an exotic plant,
A white bear caught—in the Levant.
For, ah! how very rare to see
A C---ld, or Orrery!
When these were born, Dame Fortune slept,
Or haply, the fond Muse had wept,
To've seen that worth, now rais'd so high,
Buried in low obscurity.
Tho' studious dullness to reward,
Fortune is sometimes off her guard;
And hence it was in lucky hour,
When she forgot t'exert her pow'r,
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Or happy Littleton had birth.
Will no kind patron Johnson own?
Shall Johnson, friendless, range the town?
And ev'ry publisher refuse
The offspring of his happy Muse;
Johnson, whom fancy nobly fires,
He, whom Apollo's-self inspires;
With taste polite, and well-turn'd mind,
And genius pure, as gold refin'd:
With indignation swells my heart,
Such fate attending such desert.
Shall Johnson, friendless, range the town?
And ev'ry publisher refuse
The offspring of his happy Muse;
Johnson, whom fancy nobly fires,
He, whom Apollo's-self inspires;
With taste polite, and well-turn'd mind,
And genius pure, as gold refin'd:
With indignation swells my heart,
Such fate attending such desert.
Garrick, the reason, prithee, shew,
(For sure a manager must know;)
Why from the theatre, we see,
A distant exile—poetry;
Why ev'ry bard, who trys of late,
With the dramatic Muse his fate,
Crawls thro' five acts of measur'd prose?
(For verse it is not—Pindus knows!—)
Without one pitying Muse t'inspire,
Or fancy, character, or fire.
Say! is there none with tragic rage,
To warm the soul, and shake the stage?
Who knows with true poetic art,
To move the simpathizing heart?
Does no one genius try to win ye,
Beyond the Gamester, or Virginia?
Shall sad Creusa sleep dispense,
For nine long nights, to common sense,
And thro' the stated period shine;
Yet four nights finish Constantine?
Say! is the stage oblig'd to bend,
If—lo! his lordship recommend?
While he who rivals Otway's Muse,
In vain the mighty task pursues:
And owns the labours of the brain,
Extracted, are not worth the pain.
Garrick, it must be so—since thou,
Whose speaking eye, and potent brow,
Can'st ev'ry varied passion trace,
And give ev'n Shakespeare's meaning—grace;
Whose happy taste has often shewn,
The Muse's spirit was thine own.
Most other states resemble thine,
Where worth is seldom seen to shine;
Till pow'rful Int'rest deigns to smile,
And plant it in the barren soil;
At Court Corruption takes the lead,
There vice erects her gorgon head,
And strikes Desert, and Virtue dead.
(For sure a manager must know;)
Why from the theatre, we see,
A distant exile—poetry;
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With the dramatic Muse his fate,
Crawls thro' five acts of measur'd prose?
(For verse it is not—Pindus knows!—)
Without one pitying Muse t'inspire,
Or fancy, character, or fire.
Say! is there none with tragic rage,
To warm the soul, and shake the stage?
Who knows with true poetic art,
To move the simpathizing heart?
Does no one genius try to win ye,
Beyond the Gamester, or Virginia?
Shall sad Creusa sleep dispense,
For nine long nights, to common sense,
And thro' the stated period shine;
Yet four nights finish Constantine?
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If—lo! his lordship recommend?
While he who rivals Otway's Muse,
In vain the mighty task pursues:
And owns the labours of the brain,
Extracted, are not worth the pain.
Garrick, it must be so—since thou,
Whose speaking eye, and potent brow,
Can'st ev'ry varied passion trace,
And give ev'n Shakespeare's meaning—grace;
Whose happy taste has often shewn,
The Muse's spirit was thine own.
Most other states resemble thine,
Where worth is seldom seen to shine;
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And plant it in the barren soil;
At Court Corruption takes the lead,
There vice erects her gorgon head,
And strikes Desert, and Virtue dead.
On high behold a statesman sit,
Dispenser both of wealth and wit;
For he who can the purse command,
Must ev'ry science understand;
Or tell him so—and it agrees,
As well, as with a Welchman, cheese;
Besides, with such an air and grace,
He gives a present, or a place;
'Twould such beneficence abuse,
If you the offer should refuse;
Small the return!—should he expect—
Your conscience—only—to direct.
Conscience is made of pliant stuff—
Be bold—and thrive,—and that's enough:
Mark how the fawning levee watch
His words,—his very looks to catch;—
And when he speaks, with noisy praise,
Proclaim him Tully of these days.
Dispenser both of wealth and wit;
For he who can the purse command,
Must ev'ry science understand;
Or tell him so—and it agrees,
As well, as with a Welchman, cheese;
Besides, with such an air and grace,
He gives a present, or a place;
'Twould such beneficence abuse,
If you the offer should refuse;
Small the return!—should he expect—
Your conscience—only—to direct.
Conscience is made of pliant stuff—
Be bold—and thrive,—and that's enough:
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His words,—his very looks to catch;—
And when he speaks, with noisy praise,
Proclaim him Tully of these days.
So I have seen a hound, attend
His master's dinner, near the end,
Low-cowring, whimper, wag his tail
Lest he should miss th'expected meal.
His master's dinner, near the end,
Low-cowring, whimper, wag his tail
Lest he should miss th'expected meal.
Anatomize this mighty man,
His fund of virtue's nicely scan;
Virtues, alas! he ne'er had one,
But yet he's Fortune's darling son.
His fund of virtue's nicely scan;
Virtues, alas! he ne'er had one,
But yet he's Fortune's darling son.
His vices then examine well,
Oh! these, indeed, will largely tell!
Divest him of exterior shew,
Then we his real worth shall know.
Oh! these, indeed, will largely tell!
Divest him of exterior shew,
Then we his real worth shall know.
Ambition, first, at large behold,
And an insatiate thirst of gold;
Dissimulation next appears,
Which ev'ry thought and action steers;
Then Pride erects her lofty head,
By Fortune's ill-plac'd bounty fed,
Who with an eye of stern command,
Deals out oppression o'er the land;
Fierce Cruelty on her attends,
For she and Pride are always friends;
These are the attributes we find,
That form the busy Statesman's mind,
Grown putrid on the throne of pow'r,
Fresh vices spring up ev'ry hour;
As in dead corses serpents breed,
And loathsome, on corruption feed.
And an insatiate thirst of gold;
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Which ev'ry thought and action steers;
Then Pride erects her lofty head,
By Fortune's ill-plac'd bounty fed,
Who with an eye of stern command,
Deals out oppression o'er the land;
Fierce Cruelty on her attends,
For she and Pride are always friends;
These are the attributes we find,
That form the busy Statesman's mind,
Grown putrid on the throne of pow'r,
Fresh vices spring up ev'ry hour;
As in dead corses serpents breed,
And loathsome, on corruption feed.
Yet mighty honours grace his name,
And rival bards his praise proclaim.
And rival bards his praise proclaim.
Say, Muse, in camps, where trumpets sound,
Is merit in commission found?
Alas! you seek her there in vain,
'Tis not her province there to reign.
Is merit in commission found?
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'Tis not her province there to reign.
Deep in the ranks behold him stand,
Beneath some titled fool's command;
Who deviates from his noble race,
With spindle limbs, and lady face,
Who shivers at the wintry breeze,
As tremble leaves on aspin trees;
And tho' he starts at honour's call,
Shines still the bravest—at a ball.
No bully of the town's his peer!
His look, how fierce! how arch, his sneer!
What terror does his hat afford!
And at his side—what length of sword!
Beneath some titled fool's command;
Who deviates from his noble race,
With spindle limbs, and lady face,
Who shivers at the wintry breeze,
As tremble leaves on aspin trees;
And tho' he starts at honour's call,
Shines still the bravest—at a ball.
No bully of the town's his peer!
His look, how fierce! how arch, his sneer!
What terror does his hat afford!
And at his side—what length of sword!
Behold him on the grand parade,
Where each man shines a warlike blade,
He gives the word—then boldly fire—
While ladies all around admire:
The Hero to advantage shines,
And boldly traverses the lines,
While eager Mamma from afar,
Views all the smoaky pomp of war;
And when the toilsome task is done,
Receives with joy her darling son.
When war proclaim'd, commands to wield
The shining blade, and take the field;
To hear him talk, you'd swear the elf
Would rout whole armies by himself.
Where each man shines a warlike blade,
He gives the word—then boldly fire—
While ladies all around admire:
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And boldly traverses the lines,
While eager Mamma from afar,
Views all the smoaky pomp of war;
And when the toilsome task is done,
Receives with joy her darling son.
When war proclaim'd, commands to wield
The shining blade, and take the field;
To hear him talk, you'd swear the elf
Would rout whole armies by himself.
But view him, in the time of battle,
When sabres clash, and muskets rattle;
When cannons, with terrific sound,
Pour undiscerning death around;
Swift as the ball, he 'scapes the fight,
And quickly scampers out of sight.
When sabres clash, and muskets rattle;
When cannons, with terrific sound,
Pour undiscerning death around;
Swift as the ball, he 'scapes the fight,
And quickly scampers out of sight.
Yet none display more mighty valour,
Than when in ripen'd fit of choler,
He breaks the windows for the score,
Bullies the watch, or kicks a whore;—
Or when beneath this man of war,
For mercy, cries the levell'd draw'r,
Where is the man who dares engage
To mitigate such mighty rage?
Than when in ripen'd fit of choler,
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Bullies the watch, or kicks a whore;—
Or when beneath this man of war,
For mercy, cries the levell'd draw'r,
Where is the man who dares engage
To mitigate such mighty rage?
What heart but shudders, to be told
That such as these can rise by gold?
And tho' so void of worth, or spirit,
Can soar beyond the greatest merit.
That such as these can rise by gold?
And tho' so void of worth, or spirit,
Can soar beyond the greatest merit.
With courts and camps fatigu'd, the Muse
To College now the road pursues,
Whither the pillars of the nation,
Are sent for lib'ral education;
Traces their progress thro' the schools,
Where money pays the breach of rules,
And stamps them coxcombs,—pedants,—fools.
To College now the road pursues,
Whither the pillars of the nation,
Are sent for lib'ral education;
Traces their progress thro' the schools,
Where money pays the breach of rules,
And stamps them coxcombs,—pedants,—fools.
Here first they learn to bid defiance
To sense, and virtue, arts and science;
Midst learned folks to hear them say things,
Authors, you'd think, with them were play-things;
They prove more learning in one bottle,
Than in whole reams of—Aristotle;
More sense and reason in stout drinking,
Than in Dan Watts's Art of thinking.
Take them well sok'd with old October,
Nay take them, either drunk, or sober,
To shew their mighty taste, scullastic,
They'll teach you all the art gymnastic;
Deride the eloquence of Tully,
And prove the language of a bully,
Dress'd up in oaths, is better grac'd,
And marks at once—the Man of taste.
To sense, and virtue, arts and science;
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Authors, you'd think, with them were play-things;
They prove more learning in one bottle,
Than in whole reams of—Aristotle;
More sense and reason in stout drinking,
Than in Dan Watts's Art of thinking.
Take them well sok'd with old October,
Nay take them, either drunk, or sober,
To shew their mighty taste, scullastic,
They'll teach you all the art gymnastic;
Deride the eloquence of Tully,
And prove the language of a bully,
Dress'd up in oaths, is better grac'd,
And marks at once—the Man of taste.
They swear sedateness is but sadness,
That humour must consist in—madness;
That he, who poorly dares refuse
To keep a Girl, and bravely booze;
And after fiercely sally out,
The midnight magistrate to rout;
Should muddle over pipes and beer,
And never rise to better cheer.
That humour must consist in—madness;
That he, who poorly dares refuse
To keep a Girl, and bravely booze;
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The midnight magistrate to rout;
Should muddle over pipes and beer,
And never rise to better cheer.
What hardy tutor dares controul,
Such noble sallies of the soul?
Such noble sallies of the soul?
Now into life, their footsteps trace,
With mitre, and sagacious face;
See one into a bishop rise!
In lawn, a saint—arraigning vice;
Tho' fitter far to strike a-cross-drum,
The tallied sticks, than mount a rostrum;
With heart as hard as lignum vitæ,
Endow'd with pride, and av'rice mighty;
A living's worth he knows so well,
He'll to the highest bidder sell.
With mitre, and sagacious face;
See one into a bishop rise!
In lawn, a saint—arraigning vice;
Tho' fitter far to strike a-cross-drum,
The tallied sticks, than mount a rostrum;
With heart as hard as lignum vitæ,
Endow'd with pride, and av'rice mighty;
A living's worth he knows so well,
He'll to the highest bidder sell.
Another, see, at bar declaim,
In search of honour, pence, and fame,
For more he grasps at—than a name;
With artful speech, and venal tongue,
He gilds the proud oppressor's wrong;
Perverts the law, to bear down right;
If haply he but profits by't;
Nor truth, nor justice makes his aim,
Like M---d---n, or like W---l---br---m:
Yet gracious fortune on him smiles,
And to reward his pains and toils,
Bestows on him a judge's seat—
Lo! there he sits in pomp and state;
Nods gravely, while the council plead,
That done, erects his shallow head,
Not having heard a word was said;
Hems—strokes his beard—and then proceeds
To sentence—just as fancy leads.
The laws are in his hands, and he
Takes care to set the guiltless free,—
But—not without a handsome fee.
To rank impieties betray'd,
Shall church and laws be venal made?
Shall Simony uncheck'd prevail,
And Brib'ry overpoise the scale,
Which Justice in her hand should hold?
Shall no one honest man unfold,
And into light these mysteries bring?
No! fortune shields with nurt'ring wing,—
While learning, wisdom, wit, and sense,
Which to her gifts have no pretence,
Shall drudge thro' life, with homely cheer,
Curate—with twenty pounds per year.
In search of honour, pence, and fame,
For more he grasps at—than a name;
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He gilds the proud oppressor's wrong;
Perverts the law, to bear down right;
If haply he but profits by't;
Nor truth, nor justice makes his aim,
Like M---d---n, or like W---l---br---m:
Yet gracious fortune on him smiles,
And to reward his pains and toils,
Bestows on him a judge's seat—
Lo! there he sits in pomp and state;
Nods gravely, while the council plead,
That done, erects his shallow head,
Not having heard a word was said;
Hems—strokes his beard—and then proceeds
To sentence—just as fancy leads.
The laws are in his hands, and he
Takes care to set the guiltless free,—
But—not without a handsome fee.
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Shall church and laws be venal made?
Shall Simony uncheck'd prevail,
And Brib'ry overpoise the scale,
Which Justice in her hand should hold?
Shall no one honest man unfold,
And into light these mysteries bring?
No! fortune shields with nurt'ring wing,—
While learning, wisdom, wit, and sense,
Which to her gifts have no pretence,
Shall drudge thro' life, with homely cheer,
Curate—with twenty pounds per year.
The man who can apply, and quote
The body of the laws, by rote,
Run over Plowden, Hales, or Coke,
Repeat their pleadings without book;
Who, at a single glance, espies
The nicest points of law arise;
Neglected in some office dark,
Still labours on—a lawyer's clerk,
Scribling at midnight chanc'ry bills,
Or copying over deeds and wills.
The body of the laws, by rote,
Run over Plowden, Hales, or Coke,
Repeat their pleadings without book;
Who, at a single glance, espies
The nicest points of law arise;
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Still labours on—a lawyer's clerk,
Scribling at midnight chanc'ry bills,
Or copying over deeds and wills.
Prithee, who's yonder learned wight,
With strutting air, and wig so white;
Whose voice thro' Batson's loudly rings,
Of pamphlets, papers, learned things;
And with decisive air of praise,
Administers the poet's bays?
‘Pope wanted satire;—Congreve wit;—
‘And Vanbrugh, without humour writ:
To shew, then, what true writing is,
He rubs his hands, and strokes his phizz;
Then reads unto the list'ning throng,
Epistle, fable, ode, or song,
With proper emphasis, and tone,
Which Durfey—would have blush'd to own—
That's Borax, who so lately sprung,
Like sprouts or colworts, out of dung.
'Twas fortune's frolic,—has he merit?
Hum!—a prodigious deal of spirit.
With strutting air, and wig so white;
Whose voice thro' Batson's loudly rings,
Of pamphlets, papers, learned things;
And with decisive air of praise,
Administers the poet's bays?
‘Pope wanted satire;—Congreve wit;—
‘And Vanbrugh, without humour writ:
To shew, then, what true writing is,
He rubs his hands, and strokes his phizz;
Then reads unto the list'ning throng,
Epistle, fable, ode, or song,
With proper emphasis, and tone,
Which Durfey—would have blush'd to own—
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Like sprouts or colworts, out of dung.
'Twas fortune's frolic,—has he merit?
Hum!—a prodigious deal of spirit.
Arsellus ignorant and vain,
With coach and parti-colour'd train;
Who scarce can construe tantum capias,
Or tell you who was Esculapius:
Soon as Arsellus sees your face,
And feels your pulse, he knows your case;
To hear the man prescribe, you'd swear,
He gallop'd thro' a witch's pray'r;
For he a roll of cant is pat-in,
'Tis neither Hebrew, Greek, nor Latin,
But 'tis the language of the art,—
Hence all his practice, his desert.
His skill must sure be very great,
His wig—coach—liv'ries—so complete!
With coach and parti-colour'd train;
Who scarce can construe tantum capias,
Or tell you who was Esculapius:
Soon as Arsellus sees your face,
And feels your pulse, he knows your case;
To hear the man prescribe, you'd swear,
He gallop'd thro' a witch's pray'r;
For he a roll of cant is pat-in,
'Tis neither Hebrew, Greek, nor Latin,
But 'tis the language of the art,—
Hence all his practice, his desert.
His skill must sure be very great,
His wig—coach—liv'ries—so complete!
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While Probus learned, grave and wise,
Deep skill'd in nature's mysteries;
Who can thro' all its serpent course,
Disorder trace from inmost source;
Shall scarcely find (so fate ordains)
Subsistance, to reward his pains;
And why; no chariot dins their ears—
No footman's rap, when he appears.
Deep skill'd in nature's mysteries;
Who can thro' all its serpent course,
Disorder trace from inmost source;
Shall scarcely find (so fate ordains)
Subsistance, to reward his pains;
And why; no chariot dins their ears—
No footman's rap, when he appears.
In ev'ry rank, and each degree
Of mazy life, true worth we see,
Beneath the frown of fortune pine;
Her smiles on vice and folly shine.
Of mazy life, true worth we see,
Beneath the frown of fortune pine;
Her smiles on vice and folly shine.
Can we the cause of this explore?
Yes! hark, while I a tale run o'er!
Yes! hark, while I a tale run o'er!
Merit, one day o'ercome with grief,
Petition'd Jove for some relief;
He heard the pray'r, nor could he less,—
For the appearance spoke distress:
His eye was modest; in his mien
Decent humility was seen;
Dejection shaded o'er his face,
The native soil of ev'ry grace.
Petition'd Jove for some relief;
He heard the pray'r, nor could he less,—
For the appearance spoke distress:
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Decent humility was seen;
Dejection shaded o'er his face,
The native soil of ev'ry grace.
Jove order'd Mercury to call
Dame Fortune to th'Olympic hall;
Summon'd, she came, and by her side,
Old Plutus serving for a guide.
Dame Fortune to th'Olympic hall;
Summon'd, she came, and by her side,
Old Plutus serving for a guide.
Jove bade her hear th'indictment read,
Hold up her hand, and answer plead;
Celestial forms of trial, then,
Were much the same, as those of men:
She beg'd from Plutus they'd receive
Her plea, to whom her pow'r she gave;—
They granted her request, and he
In words like these, made out the plea.
Hold up her hand, and answer plead;
Celestial forms of trial, then,
Were much the same, as those of men:
She beg'd from Plutus they'd receive
Her plea, to whom her pow'r she gave;—
They granted her request, and he
In words like these, made out the plea.
‘Merit of our neglect complains,
‘But in himself the fault remains;
‘You would not have me, who refuse
‘So many, those who fly me, chuse:
‘My haunts, to all the world reveal'd,
‘Sure cannot be from him conceal'd:
‘I'm with the merchant, us'rer, court,
‘But rarely with the bard consort;
‘I'm at the levy of my lord,
‘To Warwick lane some hours afford;
‘Behind the scenes I sometimes tread,
‘And set poor Harly on his head.
‘The sycophant, with graceful sneer,
‘Grasps at my robe, when I appear;
‘The bishop has me, in his coach,
‘The courts I with the judge approach;
‘The admiral, who commands a fleet,
‘Never ordain'd the foe to meet;
‘The chief, who ne'er did good, or harm,
‘Yet leads an army, has my arm:
‘Wit, courage, sense by me are found,
‘Nay, sometimes, wisdom, in my round:
‘To find out Merit in my train,
‘'Tis true has always been in vain;
‘He flies whenever I am near,
‘Nay quits the church, if I appear:
‘If then, great Jove, by your decree,
‘Merit my follower must be;
‘His honest nature reconcile
‘To the false flatterer's courtly smile,
‘Let him not start, surpriz'd to feel
‘The secret bribe, I often deal;
‘Let him not blush to lye, an end
‘To gain, or serve a titled friend;
‘Let------
—Jove cry'd, in wrath, ‘No more! prophane;
‘Hence from my sight, on earth remain,
‘With grov'ling souls, who fear t'aspire,
‘At virtue's bright celestial fire;
‘Short thy dominion is, but he
‘Shall taste of endless joys with me,
‘Who struggles still for virtue's laws,
‘And thirsts to die in honour's cause.
‘But in himself the fault remains;
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‘So many, those who fly me, chuse:
‘My haunts, to all the world reveal'd,
‘Sure cannot be from him conceal'd:
‘I'm with the merchant, us'rer, court,
‘But rarely with the bard consort;
‘I'm at the levy of my lord,
‘To Warwick lane some hours afford;
‘Behind the scenes I sometimes tread,
‘And set poor Harly on his head.
‘The sycophant, with graceful sneer,
‘Grasps at my robe, when I appear;
‘The bishop has me, in his coach,
‘The courts I with the judge approach;
‘The admiral, who commands a fleet,
‘Never ordain'd the foe to meet;
‘The chief, who ne'er did good, or harm,
‘Yet leads an army, has my arm:
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‘Nay, sometimes, wisdom, in my round:
‘To find out Merit in my train,
‘'Tis true has always been in vain;
‘He flies whenever I am near,
‘Nay quits the church, if I appear:
‘If then, great Jove, by your decree,
‘Merit my follower must be;
‘His honest nature reconcile
‘To the false flatterer's courtly smile,
‘Let him not start, surpriz'd to feel
‘The secret bribe, I often deal;
‘Let him not blush to lye, an end
‘To gain, or serve a titled friend;
‘Let------
—Jove cry'd, in wrath, ‘No more! prophane;
‘Hence from my sight, on earth remain,
‘With grov'ling souls, who fear t'aspire,
‘At virtue's bright celestial fire;
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‘Shall taste of endless joys with me,
‘Who struggles still for virtue's laws,
‘And thirsts to die in honour's cause.
'Tis virtue that exalts the mind,
To racks, to tortures still resign'd;
He's doubly arm'd to face the fight,
And in the conflict feels delight;
Whom wisdom with persuasive force,
Still guides along in virtue's course;
Hence, hence alone, the good and great,
Still triumph over time and fate;
Wisdom is virtue's truest friend,
The clue to ev'ry happy end.
To racks, to tortures still resign'd;
He's doubly arm'd to face the fight,
And in the conflict feels delight;
Whom wisdom with persuasive force,
Still guides along in virtue's course;
Hence, hence alone, the good and great,
Still triumph over time and fate;
Wisdom is virtue's truest friend,
The clue to ev'ry happy end.
Sam. Johnson, one of the most elegant writers of the age, Author of the New English Dictionary, at first could scarcely find a Bookseller, who would publish his fine imitation of Juvenal's third satire.
Constantine, the best of five new plays that appear'd the last winter, was dropp'd the fifth night, for want of encouragement; yet all the rest crawl'd thro' nine nights, the destin'd course of modern plays; afterwards they are deservedly forgotten. Constantine was written by Mr. Francis, the Translator of Horace, and from the judicious must meet that applause in the closet, which it wanted on the stage.
| A Collection of Original Poems | |