Poems and Plays :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems and Plays

By William Hayley ... in Six Volumes. A New Edition

Hayley, William (1745-1820)

VOL. I.

II.

VOL. II.

III.

IV.

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II. VOL. II.

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Some notes have been omitted.

AN ESSAY ON HISTORY;

IN THREE EPISTLES TO EDWARD GIBBON, ESQ.

Της ιστοριας οικειον αμα και χρησιμον εξεταζεσθω. Polybius, Lib, ii.

EPISTLE THE FIRST

ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST EPISTLE.

Introduction.—Relation between History and Poetry— Decline of the latter.—Subject of the present Poem slightly touched by the Ancients.—Dionysius— Lucian.—Importance and advantage of History—its origin—subsequent to that of Poetry—disguised in its infancy by Priestcraft and Superstition—brought from Egypt into Greece.—Scarcity of great Historians—Perfect composition not to be expected.—Address to History, and Characters of many ancient Historians —Herodotus—Thucydides—Xenophon— Polybius—Sallust—Livy—Tacitus.— Biography—Plutarch.—Baleful influence of despotic power.—Ammianus Marcellinus—Anna Comnena.

High in the world of Letters, and of Wit,
Enthron'd like Jove, behold Opinion sit!
As symbols of her sway, on either hand
Th' unfailing urns of Praise and Censure stand;
Their mingled streams her motley servants shed
On each bold Author's self-devoted head.

On thee, O Gibbon! in whose splendid page
Rome shines majestic 'mid the woes of age,
Mistaken Zeal, wrapt in a priestly pall,
Has from the baser urn pour'd darkest gall:
These stains to Learning would a Bard efface
With tides of glory from the golden vase,
But that he feels this nobler task require
A spirit glowing with congenial fire—
A Virgil only may uncensur'd aim
To sing in equal verse a Livy's fame:
Yet while Polemics, in fierce league combin'd,
With savage discord vex thy feeling mind;
And rashly stain Religion's just defence,
By gross detraction and perverted sense;
Thy wounded ear may haply not refuse
The soothing accents of an humbler Muse.

The lovely Science, whose attractive air
Derives new charms from thy devoted care,
Is near ally'd to that enchanting Art,
Which reigns the idol of the Poet's heart.

Tho' sister Goddesses, thy guardian maid
Shines in the robe of fresher youth array'd,
Like Pallas recent from the brain of Jove,
When Strength with Beauty in her features strove;
While elder Poesy, in every clime
The flower of earliest fall, has past her prime:
The bloom, which her autumnal cheeks supply,
Palls on the Public's philosophic eye.
What! tho' no more with Fancy's strong controul
Her Epic wonders fascinate the soul;
With humbler hopes, she wishes still to please
By moral elegance, and labour'd ease:
Like other Prudes, leaves Beauty's lost pretence,
And strives to charm by Sentiment and Sense.
Yet deaf to Envy's voice, and Pride's alarms,
She loves the rival, who eclips'd her charms;
Safe in thy favour, she would fondly stray
Round the wide realm, which owns that Sister's sway,
Sing the just fav'rites of historic fame,
And mark their purest laws and noblest aim.

My eyes with joy this pathless field explore,
Cross'd by no Roman Bard, no Greeks of yore.
Those mighty Lords of literary sway
Have pass'd this province with a slight survey:
E'en He, whose bold and comprehensive mind
Immortal rules to Poesy assign'd,
High Priest of Learning! has not fix'd apart
The laws and limits of historic Art:
Yet one excelling Greek in later days,
The happy teacher of harmonious phrase,
Whose patient fingers all the threads untwine,
Which in the mystic chain of Music join;
Strict Dionysius, of severest Taste,
Has justly some historic duties trac'd,
And some pure precepts into practice brought,
Th' Historian proving what the Critic taught.
And Lucian! thou, of Humour's sons supreme!
Hast touch'd with liveliest art this tempting theme.

When in the Roman world, corrupt and vain,
Historic Fury madden'd every brain;
When each base Greek indulg'd his frantic dream,
And rose a Xenophon in self-esteem;
Thy Genius satyriz'd the scribbling slave,
And to the liberal pen just lessons gave:
O skill'd to season, in proportion fit,
Severer wisdom with thy sportive wit!
Breathe thy strong power! thy sprightly grace infuse
In the bold efforts of no servile Muse,
If she transplant some lively flower, that throws
Immortal sweetness o'er thy Attic Prose!

In Egypt once a dread tribunal stood;
Offspring of Wisdom! source of Public Good!
Before this Seat, by holy Justice rear'd,
The mighty Dead, in solemn pomp, appear'd;
For till its sentence had their rights expos'd,
The hallow'd portals of the tomb were clos'd;

A sculptur'd form of Truth the Judges wore,
A sacred emblem of the charge they bore!
The claims of Virtue their pure voice exprest,
And bade the opening grave receive its honor'd guest.
Thus awefully array'd in Judgment's robe,
With powers extensive as the peopled Globe;
To her just bar impartial Hist'ry brings
The gorgeous group of Statesmen, Heroes, Kings;
With all whose minds, outshining splendid birth,
Attract the notice of th' enlighten'd earth.
From artful Pomp she strips the proud disguise
That flash'd delusion in admiring eyes;
To injur'd Worth gives Glory's wish'd reward,
And blazons Virtue in her bright record:
Nature's clear Mirror! Life's instructive Guide!
Her wisdom sour'd by no preceptive Pride!
Age from her lesson forms its wisest aim,
And youthful Emulation springs to Fame.

Yet thus adorn'd with noblest powers, design'd
To charm, correct, and elevate mankind,

From darkest Time her humble Birth she drew,
And slowly into Strength and Beauty grew;
As mighty streams, that roll with gather'd force,
Spring feebly forth from some sequester'd source.

The fond desire to pass the nameless crowd,
Swept from the earth in dark Oblivion's cloud;
Of transient life to leave some little trace,
And win remembrance from the rising race,
Led early Chiefs to make their prowess known
By the rude symbol on the artless stone:
And, long ere man the wondrous secret found,
To paint the voice, and fix the fleeting sound,
The infant Muse, ambitious at her birth,
Rose the young herald of heroic worth.
The tuneful record of her oral praise,
The Sire's atchievements to the Son conveys:
Keen Emulation, wrapt in trance sublime,
Drinks with retentive ear the potent rhyme;

And faithful Memory, from affection strong,
Spreads the rich torrent of her martial song.
Letters at length arise; but envious Night
Conceals their blest Inventor from our sight.
O'er the wide earth his spreading bounty flew,
And swift those precious seeds of Science grew;
Thence quickly sprung the Annal's artless frame,
Time its chief boast! and brevity its aim!
The Temple-wall preserv'd a simple date,
And mark'd in plainest form the Monarch's fate.

But in the center of those vast abodes,
Whose mighty mass the land of Egypt loads;
Where, in rude triumph over years unknown,
Gigantic Grandeur, from his spiry throne,
Seems to look down disdainful, and deride
The poor, the pigmy toils of modern Pride;
In the close covert of those gloomy cells,
Where early Magic fram'd her venal spells,

Combining priests, from many an ancient tale,
Wove for their hallow'd use Religion's veil;
A wondrous texture! supple, rich, and broad,
To dazzle Folly, and to shelter Fraud!
This, as her cæstus, Superstition wore;
And saw th' enchanted world its powers adore:
For in the mystic web was every charm
To lure the timid, and the bold disarm;
To win from easy Faith a blind esteem,
And lull Devotion in a lasting dream.
The Sorceress, to spread her empire, drest
History's young form in this illusive vest,
Whose infant voice repeated, as she taught,
The motley fables on her mantle wrought;
Till Attic Freedom brought the Foundling home
From the dark cells of her Egyptian dome;
Drew by degrees th' oppressive veil aside,
And, shewing the fair Nymph in nature's pride,
Taught her to speak, with all the fire of youth,
The words of Wisdom in the tone of Truth:

To catch the passing shew of public life,
And paint immortal scenes of Grecian strife.
Inchanting Athens! oft as Learning calls
Our fond attention to thy fost'ring walls,
Still with fresh joy thy glories we explore,
With new idolatry thy charms adore.
Bred in thy bosom, the Historian caught
The warmest glow of elevated thought.
Yet while thy triumphs to his eye display,
The noblest scene his pencil can portray;
While thy rich language, grac'd by every Muse,
Supplies the brightest tints, his hand can use;
How small their band, who, in thy happier days,
Reach the bright summit of historic praise!
'Tis thus with every Art, in every age,
From the mechanic to the moral sage:
Excelling merit is by nature rare:
Millions contend for crowns they cannot wear.
Coy Science, in her scene of wide command,
Bestows her honours with a sparing hand;

Like Charlemain's proud host, her vassal crew
No tongue can count—Her paladins are few.

Pure, faultless writing, like transmuted gold,
Mortals may wish, but never shall behold:
Let Genius still this glorious object own,
And seek Perfection's philosophic stone!
For while the mind, in study's toilsome hours,
Tries on the long research her latent powers,
New wonders rise, to pay her patient thought,
Inferior only to the prize she sought.

But idle Pride no arduous labor sees,
And deems th' Historian's toil a task of ease:
Yet, if survey'd by Judgment's steady lamp,
How few are justly grac'd with Glory's stamp!
Tho' more these volumes, than the ruthless mind
Of the fierce Omar to the flames consign'd,
When Learning saw the savage with a smile
Devote her offspring to the blazing pile!

O History! whose pregnant mines impart
Unfailing treasures to poetic art;
The Epic gem, and those of darker hues,
Whose trembling lustre decks the tragic Muse;
If, justly conscious of thy powers, I raise
A votive tablet to record thy praise,
That ancient temple to my view unfold,
Where thy first Sons, on Glory's list enroll'd,
To Fancy's eye, in living forms, appear,
And fill with Freedom's notes the raptur'd ear!—
The dome expands!—Behold th' Historic Sire!
Ionic roses mark his soft attire;
Bold in his air, but graceful in his mien
As the fair figure of his favour'd Queen,
When her proud galley sham'd the Persian van,
And grateful Xerxes own'd her more than man!

Soft as the stream, whose dimpling waters play,
And wind in lucid lapse their pleasing way,

His rich, Homeric elocution flows,
For all the Muses modulate his prose:
Tho' blind Credulity his step misleads
Thro' the dark mist of her Egyptian meads,
Yet when return'd, with patriot passions warm,
He paints the progress of the Persian storm,
In Truth's illumin'd field, his labours rear
A trophy worthy of the Spartan spear:
His eager country, in th' Olympic vale,
Throngs with proud joy to catch the martial tale.
Behold! where Valour, resting on his lance,
Drinks the sweet sound in rapture's silent trance,
Then with a grateful shout of fond acclaim,
Hails the just herald of his country's fame!—
But mark the Youth, in dumb delight immers'd!
See the proud tear of emulation burst!
O faithful sign of a superior soul!
Thy prayer is heard:—'tis thine to reach the goal.

See! blest Olorus! see the palm is won!
Sublimity and Wisdom crown thy Son:
His the rich prize, that caught his early gaze,
Th' eternal treasure of increasing praise!
Pure from the stain of favor, or of hate,
His nervous line unfolds the deep Debate;
Explores the seeds of War; with matchless force
Draws Discord, springing from Ambition's source,
With all her Demagogues, who murder peace,
In the fierce struggles of contentious Greece.
Stript by Ingratitude of just command—
Above resentment to a thankless land,
Above all envy, rancour, pride, and spleen,
In exile patient, in disgrace serene,
And proud to celebrate, as Truth inspires,
Each patriot Hero, that his soul admires—
The deep-ton'd trumpet of renown he blows,
In sage retirement 'mid the Thracian snows.
But to untimely silence Fate devotes
Those lips, yet trembling with imperfect notes,

And base Oblivion threatens to devour
E'en this first offspring of historic power.
A generous guardian of a rival's fame,
Mars the dark Fiend in this malignant aim:
Accomplish'd Xenophon! thy truth has shewn
A brother's glory sacred as thy own:
O rich in all the blended gifts, that grace
Minerva's darling sons of Attic race!
The Sage's olive, the Historian's palm,
The Victor's laurel, all thy name embalm!
Thy simple diction, free from glaring art,
With sweet allurement steals upon the heart;
Pure as the rill, that Nature's hand refines,
A cloudless mirror of thy soul it shines.
Two passions there by soft contention please,
The love of martial Fame, and learned Ease:
These friendly colours, exquisitely join'd,
Form the enchanting picture of thy mind.

Thine was the praise, bright models to afford
To Cæsar's rival pen, and rival sword:
Blest, had Ambition not destroy'd his claim
To the mild lustre of thy purer fame!
Thou pride of Greece! in thee her triumphs end:
And Roman chiefs in borrow'd pomp ascend.
Rome's haughty genius, who enslav'd the Greek,
In Grecian language deigns at first to speak:
By slow degrees her ruder tongue she taught
To tell the wonders that her valour wrought;
And her historic host, with envious eye,
View in their glittering van a Greek ally.
Thou Friend of Scipio! vers'd in War's alarms!
Torn from thy wounded country's struggling arms!
And doom'd in Latian bosoms to instill
Thy moral virtue, and thy martial skill!
Pleas'd, in researches of elaborate length,
To trace the fibres of the Roman strength!

O highly perfect in each nobler part,
The Sage's wisdom and the Soldier's art!
This richer half of Grecian praise is thine:
But o'er thy style the slighted Graces pine,
And tir'd Attention toils thro' many a maze,
To reach the purport of thy doubtful phrase:
Yet large are his rewards, whore toils engage
To clear the spirit of thy cloudy page;
Like Indian fruit, its rugged rind contains
Those milky sweets that pay the searcher's pains.

Rome's haughty Genius, with exulting claim,
Points to her rivals of the Grecian name!
Sententious Sallust leads her lofty train;
Clear, tho' concise, elaborately plain,
Poising his scale of words with frugal care,
Nor leaving one superfluous atom there!
Yet well displaying, in a narrow space,
Truth's native strength, and nature's easy grace;

Skill'd to detect, in tracing Action's course,
The hidden motive, and the human source.
His lucid brevity the palm has won,
By Rome's decision, from Olorus' Son.

Of mightier spirit, of majestic frame,
With powers proportion'd to the Roman fame,
When Rome's fierce Eagle his broad wings unfurl'd,
And shadow'd with his plumes the subject world,
In bright pre-eminence, that Greece might own,
Sublimer Livy claims th' Historic throne;
With that rich Eloquence, whose golden light
Brings the full scene distinctly to the sight;
That Zeal for Truth, which Interest cannot bend,
That Fire, which Freedom ever gives her friend.
Immortal artist of a work supreme!
Delighted Rome beheld, with proud esteem,
Her own bright image, of Colossal size,
From thy long toils in purest marble rise.

But envious Time, with a malignant stroke,
This sacred statue into fragments broke;
In Lethe's stream its nobler portions sunk,
And left Futurity the wounded trunk.
Yet, like the matchless, mutilated frame,
To which great Angelo bequeath'd his name,
This glorious ruin, in whose strength we find
The splendid vigour of the Sculptor's mind,
In the fond eye of Admiration still
Rivals the finish'd forms of modern skill.

Next, but, O Livy! as unlike to thee,
As the pent river to th' expanding sea,
Sarcastic Tacitus, abrupt and dark,
In moral anger forms the keen remark;
Searching the soul with microscopic power,
To mark the latent worm that mars the flower.
His Roman voice, in base degenerate days,
Spoke to Imperial Pride in Freedom's praise;

And with indignant hate, severely warm,
Shew'd to gigantic Guilt his ghastly form!
There are, whose censures to his Style assign
A subtle spirit, rigid and malign;
Which magnified each monster that he drew,
And gave to darkest vice a deeper hue:
Yet his strong pencil shews the gentlest heart,
In one sweet sketch of Biographic art,
Whose softest tints, by filial love combin'd,
Form the pure image of his Father's mind.

O blest Biography! thy charms of yore
Historic Truth to strong Affection bore;
And fost'ring Virtue gave thee, as thy dower,
Of both thy Parents the attractive power
To win the heart, the wavering thought to fix,
And fond delight with wise instruction mix.
First of thy votaries, peerless, and alone,
Thy Plutarch shines, by moral beauty known:

Enchanting Sage! whose living lessons teach,
What heights of Virtue human efforts reach.
Tho' oft thy Pen, eccentrically wild,
Ramble, in Learning's various maze beguil'd;
Tho' in thy Style no brilliant graces shine,
Nor the clear conduct of correct Design,
Thy every page is uniformly bright
With mild Philanthropy's diviner light.
Of gentlest manners, as of mind elate,
Thy happy Genius had the glorious fate
To regulate, with Wisdom's soft controul,
The strong ambition of a Trajan's soul.
But O! how rare benignant Virtue springs
In the blank bosom of despotic kings!

Thou bane of liberal knowledge! Nature's curse!
Parent of Misery! pamper'd Vice's nurse!
Thou who canst bind, by thy petrific breath,
The soul of Genius in the trance of death!
Unbounded Power! beneath thy baleful sway,
The voice of Hist'ry sinks in dumb decay.

Still in thy gloomy reign one martial Greek,
In Rome's corrupted language dares to speak;
Mild Marcellinus! free from servile awe!
A faithful painter of the woes he saw;
Forc'd by the meanness of his age to join
Adulterate Colours with his just Design!
The slighted Attic Muse no more supplies
Her pencil, dipt in Nature's purest dies;
And Roman Emulation, at a stand,
Drops the blurr'd pallet from her palsy'd hand.

But while monastic Night, with gathering shades,
The ruin'd realm of History invades;
While, pent in Constantine's ill-fated walls,
The mangled form of Roman Grandeur falls,
And, like a Gladiator on the sand,
Props his faint body with a dying hand;
While savage Turks, or the fierce Sons of Thor,
Wage on the Arts a wild Titanian war;

While manly Knowledge hides his radiant head,
As Jove in terror from the Titans fled;
See! in the lovely charms of female youth,
A second Pallas guards the throne of Truth!
And, with Comnena's royal name imprest,
The zone of Beauty binds her Attic vest!
Fair star of Wisdom! whose unrival'd light
Breaks thro' the stormy cloud of thickest night;
Tho' in the purple of proud misery nurst,
From those oppressive bands thy spirit burst;
Pleas'd, in thy public labours, to forget
The keen domestic pangs of fond regret!
Pleas'd to preserve, from Time's destructive rage,
A Father's virtues in thy faithful page!
Too pure of soul to violate, or hide
Th' Historian's duty in the Daughter's pride!
Tho' base Oblivion long with envious hand
Hid the fair volume which thy virtue plann'd,

It shines, redeem'd from Ruin's darkest hour,
A wond'rous monument of Female power;
While conscious Hist'ry, careful of thy fame,
Ranks in her Attic band thy filial name,
And sees, on Glory's stage, thy graceful mien
Close the long triumph of her ancient scene!

END OF THE FIRST EPISTLE.

EPISTLE THE SECOND.

Sunt et alii Scriptores boni: sed nos genera degustamus, non bibliothecas excutimus, Quintil. Lib. x.

ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND EPISTLE.

Defects of the Monkish Historians—our obligations to the best of them.—Contrast between two of the most fabulous, and two of the most rational.—Indulgence due to Writers of the dark Ages.—Arabians—Abulfeda —Bohaddin.—Slow Progress of the human Mind.— Chivalry.—Froissart.—Revival of ancient Learning under Leo X.—Historians in Italy, Machiavel, Guicciardin, Davila, and Father Paul— in Portugal, Osorius—in Spain, Mariana—in Holland, Grotius—in France, Thuanus.— Praise of Toleration.—Voltaire.—Address to England.—Clarendon—Burnet—Rapin—Hume —Lyttelton.—Reason for not attempting to describe any living Historian.

As eager Fossilists with ardour pore
On the flat margin of the pebbled shore,
Hoping some curious Shell, or Coral-root,
Will pay the labours of their long pursuit;
And yield their hand the pleasure to display
Nature's neglected Gems in nice array:
So, Gibbon! toils the mind, whose labour wades
Thro' the dull Chronicle's monastic shades,

To pick from that drear coast, with learned care,
New shells of Knowledge, thinly scatter'd there;
Who patient hears, while cloister'd Dullness tells
The lying legend of her murky cells;
Or strangely mingles, in her phrase uncouth,
Disgusting Lies with unimportant Truth:
How Bishops give (each tort'ring Fiend o'ercome)
Life to the faint, and language to the dumb:
How sainted Kings renounce, with holy dread,
The chaste endearments of their marriage-bed:
How Nuns, entranc'd, to joys celestial mount,
Frantic with rapture from a sacred fount:
How cunning Priests their dying Lord cajole,
And take his riches to ensure his soul:
While he endows them, in his pious will,
With those choice gifts, the Meadow and the Mill,
They wisely chronicle his Spirit's health,
And give him Virtue in return for Wealth.

So Hist'ry sinks, by Hypocrites deprest,
In the coarse habit of the cloister drest;
When her weak Sons that noxious air imbibe,
Such are the tales of their monastic tribe!

But let not Pride, with blind contempt, arraign
Each early Writer in that humble train!
No! let the Muse, a friend to every claim
That marks the Candidate for honest fame,
Be just to patient Worth, severely sunk,
And paint the merits of the modest Monk!

Ye purer minds! who stopt, with native force,
Blind Ignorance in his barbarian course;
Who, in the field of Hist'ry, dark and waste,
Your simple path with steady patience trac'd;
Blest be your labours! and your virtues blest!
Tho' paid with insult, and with scorn opprest,
Ye rescu'd Learning's lamp from total night,
And sav'd with anxious toil the trembling light,
In the wild storm of that tempestuous time,
When Superstition cherish'd every crime;

When meaner Priests pronounc'd with falt'ring tongue,
Nor knew to read the jargon which they sung;
When Nobles, train'd like blood-hounds to destroy,
In ruthless rapine plac'd their savage joy;
And Monarchs wanted ev'n the skill to frame
The letters that compos'd their mighty name.
How strong the mind, that, try'd by ills like these,
Could write untainted with the Time's disease!
That, free from Folly's lie, and Fraud's pretence,
Could rise to simple Truth, and sober Sense!
Such minds existed in the darkest hour
Of blind Barbarity's debasing power.

If mitred Turpin told, in wildest strain,
Of giant-feats atchiev'd by Charlemain;
Of spears, that blossom'd like the flowery thorn,
Of Roland's magic sword, and ivory horn,
Whose sound was wafted by an angel's wing,
In notes of anguish, to his distant king;

Yet modest Æginhard, with grateful care,
In purer colours, and with Nature's air,
Has drawn distinctly, in his clear record,
A juster portrait of this mighty Lord,
Whose forceful lance, against the Pagan hurl'd,
Shone the bright terror of a barbarous world.
Nor on his master does he idly shower
The priestly gifts of supernat'ral Power:
This candid Scribe of Gratitude and Truth,
Correctly paints the Patron of his youth,
Th' imperial Savage, whose unletter'd mind
Was active, strong, beneficent, and kind;
Who, tho' he lov'd the Learned to requite,
Knew not that simplest art, the art to write.

If British Geffrey fill'd his motley page
With Merlin's spells, and Uther's amorous rage;
With fables from the field of Magic glean'd,
Giant and Dragon, Incubus and Fiend;

Yet Life's great drama, and the Deeds of men,
Sage Monk of Malm'sbury! engag'd thy pen.
Nor vainly dost thou plead, in modest phrase,
Thy manly passion for ingenuous praise:
'Twas thine the labours of thy Sires to clear
From Fiction's harden'd spots, with toil severe;
To form, with eyes intent on public life,
Thy bolder sketches of internal strife;
And warmly celebrate, with love refin'd,
The rich endowments of thy Glo'ster's mind;
May this, thy Praise, the Monkish pen exempt
From the ungenerous blame of blind Contempt!

Tho' Truth appear to make thy works her care,
The lurking Prodigy still lingers there:
But let not censure on thy name be thrown
For errors, springing from thy Age alone!
Shame on the Critic! who, with idle scorn,
Depreciates Authors, in dark periods born,

Who chance to want, irregularly bright,
That equal Knowledge, and that steadier Light,
Which Learning, in its full meridian power,
Has richly lavish'd on his happier hour!

Where martial tribes a warlike Despot own,
And civil Freedom is a bliss unknown,
In casual fits of intermitted strife,
The Arts are summon'd into transient life:
The royal mind supplies the quick'ning ray,
And Science seems the insect of a day.
Mark the fierce sons of many a savage horde,
That from her fertile wilds Arabia pour'd!
Behold them, as they range the subject earth,
Now stifle Knowledge, and now give it birth!
In Syrian Hamah, lo! a Prince presides,
Whose faithful hand the pen of Hist'ry guides:
Mild Abulfeda! whose rich merits claim
No single wreath of literary Fame:

The regions he describ'd, his talents boast,
And Eastern Poets rank him in their host.
In different climes behold an Arab Lord
Crush the fair Art his brutal soul abhorr'd!
And with that victim's blood his sabre stain,
Who dar'd to write the annals of his reign!
Yet in the land, that saw this savage deed,
Arabian Science gain'd her richest meed:
There Corduba, in hours of happier fate,
Sublimely rose in academic state,
Alike for Gallantry and Learning known,
Asylum of the Arts, and Valour's throne!
Ye turrets crescent-crown'd! the prey of Time!
Bright scenes! that echoed with Arabian rhyme;
Ere yet Oblivion's hateful curtain falls
On the faint splendor of your prostrate walls,
May some just hand your hidden wealth explore,
The laurel to your letter'd Chiefs restore,

To all your pomp a new existence give,
And bid your glories in description live!
The daring Moor, tho' robb'd of Freedom's rays,
Glow'd with the noble avarice of praise;
Keen as an Attic mind in Fame's pursuit,
He shook, from Labour's tree, that golden fruit.

Of all the heroes of the Moslem line,
Triumphant Saladin! 'twas chiefly thine
To cherish, in thy scenes of bloody strife,
A just Encomiast of thy splendid life;
Thy warm Bohaddin, with that generous zeal,
Which no base sons of Adulation feel,
At large delineates, with historic Art,
Thy bold, intrepid mind, thy gentle heart.
Tho' in his portrait, which reveals the Friend,
The tints of Truth with those of Fondness blend,
The picture, finish'd on no servile plan,
Gives to our view the hero, and the man.

Affliction speaks, all abject aims above,
The tender Servant in the Scribe we love;
Who shrinks, disabled by the gushing tear,
From his last duty to a Lord so dear.
Yet, tho' his bosom, touch'd with manly grief,
Shar'd the mild virtue of his feeling Chief,
His page betrays the bigot of the East,
And lavish execrations mark the Priest.

In all its various paths, the human Mind
Feels the first efforts of its strength confin'd;
And in the field, where History's laurels grow,
Winds its long march with lingering step and slow:
Like Fruit, whose taste to sweet luxuriance runs
By constant succour from autumnal suns,
This lovely Science ripens by degrees,
And late is fashion'd into graceful ease.

In those enlivening days, when Europe rose
From the long pressure of lethargic woes;

When the Provencal lyre, with roses drest,
By ardent Love's extatic fingers prest,
Wak'd into life the genius of the West;
When Chivalry, her banners all unfurl'd,
Fill'd with heroic fire the splendid world;
In high-plum'd grandeur held her gorgeous reign,
And rank'd each brilliant Virtue in her train;
When she imparted, by her magic glove,
To Honour strength, and purity to Love;
New-moulded Nature on her noblest plan,
And gave fresh sinews to the soul of man:
When the chief model of her forming hand,
Our sable Edward, on the Gallic strand,
Display'd that spirit which her laws bestow,
And shone the idol of his captive foe:
Unblest with Arts, th' unletter'd age could yield
No skilful hand, to paint from Glory's field
Scenes that Humanity with pride must hear,
And Admiration honour with a tear.

Yet Courtesy, with generous Valour join'd,
Fair Twins of Chivalry! rejoic'd to find
A faithful Chronicler in plain Froissart;
More rich in honesty than void of art.
As the young Peasant, led by spirits keen
To some great city's gay and gorgeous scene,
Returning, with increase of proud delight,
Dwells on the various splendor of the sight;
And gives his tale, tho' told in terms uncouth,
The charm of Nature, and the force of Truth,
Tho' rude engaging; such thy simple page
Seems, O Froissart! to this enlighten'd age.
Proud of their spirit, in thy writings shewn,
Fair Faith and Honour mark thee for their own;
Tho' oft the dupe of those delusive times,
Thy Genius, foster'd with romantic rhymes,
Appears to play the legendary Bard,
And trespass on the Truth it meant to guard.

Still shall thy Name, with lasting glory, stand
High on the list of that advent'rous band,
Who, bidding History speak a modern tongue,
From her cramp'd hand the Monkish fetters flung,
While yet depress'd in Gothic night she lay,
Nor saw th' approaching dawn of Attic day.

On the blest banks of Tiber's honour'd stream
Shone the first glance of that reviving beam;
Enlighten'd Pontiffs, on the signal spot
Where Science was proscrib'd, and Sense forgot,
Bade Learning start from out her mould'ring tomb,
And taught new laurels on her brow to bloom;
Their Magic voice invok'd all Arts, and all
Sprung into glory at the potent call.

As in Arabia's waste, where Horror reigns,
Gigantic tyrant of the burning plains!
The glorious bounty of some Royal mind,
By Heaven inspir'd, and friend to human kind,
Bids the rich Structure of refreshment rise,
To chear the Traveller's despairing eyes;

Who sees with rapture the new fountains burst,
And, as he slakes his soul-subduing thirst,
Blesses the hand which all his pains beguil'd,
And rais'd an Eden in the dreary wild:
Such praises, Leo! to thy name are due,
From all who Learning's cultur'd field review,
And to its Fountain, in thy liberal heart,
Trace the diffusive Stream of modern Art.
'Twas not thy praise to animate alone
The speaking Canvass, and the breathing Stone,
Or tides of Bounty round Parnassus roll,
To quicken Genius in the Poet's soul;
Thy Favour, like the Sun's prolific ray,
Brought the keen Scribe of Florence into Day;
Whose subtle Wit discharg'd a dubious shaft,
At once the Friend and Foe of Kingly Craft.
Tho', in his maze of Politics perplext,
Great Names have differ'd on that doubtful text;

Here crown'd with praise, as true to Virtue's side,
There view'd with horror, as th' Assassin's guide;
High in a purer sphere, he shines afar,
And hist'ry hails him as her Morning-star.

Nor less, O Leo! was it thine to raise
The great Historic Chief of modern days,
The solemn Guicciardin, whose pen severe,
Unsway'd by favour, nor restrain'd by fear,
Mark'd in his close of life, with keen disdain,
Each fatal blemish in thy motley reign;
Who, like Olorus' Son, of spirit chaste,
And form'd to martial toils, minutely trac'd
The woes he saw his bleeding country bear,
And wars, in which he claim'd no trivial share.

With equal wreaths let Davila be crown'd,
Alike in letters and in arms renown'd!
Who, from his country driv'n by dire mischance,
Plung'd in the civil broils of bleeding France.

Maintaining still, in Party's raging sea,
His judgment steady, and his spirit free;
Save when the fierce religion of his Sires
Drown'd the soft zeal Humanity inspires:
Who boldly wrote, with such a faithful hand,
The tragic story of that foreign land,
The hoary Gallic Chief, whose tranquil age
Listen'd with joy to his recording page,
Tracing the scenes familiar to his youth,
Gave his strong sanction to th' Historian's truth.

Oh Italy! tho' drench'd with civil blood,
Tho' drown'd in Bigotry's soul-quenching flood,
Historic Genius, in thy troubles nurst,
Ev'n from the darkness of the Convent burst,
Venice may boast eternal Honour, won
By the bright labours of her dauntless Son,
Whose hand the curtains of the Conclave drew,
And gave each priestly art to public view.

Sarpi, blest name! from every foible clear,
Not more to Science than to Virtue dear.
Thy pen, thy life, of equal praise secure!
Both wisely bold, and both sublimely pure!
That Freedom bids me on thy merits dwell,
Whose radiant form illum'd thy letter'd cell;
Who to thy hand the noblest task assign'd,
That earth can offer to a heavenly mind:
With Reason's arms to guard invaded laws,
And guide the pen of Truth in Freedom's cause.
Too firm of heart at Danger's cry to stoop,
Nor Lucre's slave, nor vain Ambition's dupe,
Thro' length of days invariably the same
Thy Country's liberty thy constant aim!
For this thy spirit dar'd th' Assassin's knife,
That with repeated guilt pursu'd thy life;
For this thy fervent and unweary'd care
Form'd, even in death, thy patriotic prayer,

And, while his shadows on thine eye-lids hung,
“Be it immortal!” trembled on thy tongue.

But not restricted, by the partial Fates,
To the bright cluster of Italian States,
The light of Learning, and of liberal Taste,
Diffusely shone o'er Europe's Gothic waste.

On Tagus' shore, from whose admiring strand
Great Gama sail'd, when his advent'rous hand
The flag of glorious enterprize unfurl'd,
To purchase with his toils the Eastern world,
The clear Osorius, in his classic phrase,
Portray'd the Heroes of those happier days,
When Lusitania, once a mighty name,
Outstripp'd each rival in the chace of Fame:
Mild and majestic, her Historian's page
Shares in the glory of her brightest age.
Iberia's Genius bids just Fame allow
As bright a wreath to Mariana's brow:

Skill'd to illuminate the distant scene,
In diction graceful, and of spirit keen,
His labour, by his country's love endear'd,
The gloomy chaos of her Story clear'd.
He first aspir'd its scatter'd parts to class,
And bring to juster form the mighty mass;
As the nice hand of Geographic art
Draws the vast globe on a contracted chart,
Where Truth uninjur'd sees, with glad surprize,
Her shape still perfect, tho' of smaller size.
Exalted Mind! who felt the People's right,
In climes, where souls are crush'd by Kingly might;
And dar'd, unaw'd before a tyrant's throne,
To make the fanctity of Freedom known!

But short, O Genius! is thy transient hour,
In the dark regions of despotic Power.
As the faint struggle of the solar beam,
When vapours intercept the golden stream,
Pouring thro' parted clouds a glancing fire,
Plays, in short triumph, on some glittering spire;

But while the eye admires the partial ray,
The pale and watery lustre melts away:
Thus gleams of literary splendor play'd,
And thus on Spain's o'erclouded realm decay'd:
While Holland, Liberty's immediate care,
Defy'd the pressure of Bœotian air,
Burst the oppressive gloom around her hurl'd,
And drew attention from th' admiring world.
When, by long toils, her dauntless warriors broke
Their Spanish bonds, and spurn'd a bloody yoke,
In the bright moments of that blessed hour,
With talents equal to his Country's power,
The fervid Grotius to her glory rais'd
A column, splendid as the feats he prais'd;
Stifled his just resentment, to bestow
A clear encomium on his private foe,
And honour'd in the Chief, who sav'd the State,
The rash oppressor, who provok'd his hate,

Thou all-accomplish'd Youth! whose early page
Charm'd the astonish'd eye of learned Age,
Let admiration of thy worth inspire
Such liberal praise, as echoed from thy lyre,
When Honour crown'd, by thy poetic hand,
The far-fam'd Scholar of thy native land!
Learning ne'er saw, in all her numerous race,
A son more worthy of her fond embrace:
Thy mind expanded to her empire's bound;
There every Science a firm station found;
There gay and grave, in rare assemblage, shone;
A wonder, equall'd by thy heart alone!
For, by enlighten'd Faith's presiding care,
The rival Virtues were all marshall'd there.
Worth so transcendent, Heaven with smiles survey'd,
And with the choicest of its gifts repaid;
Gave thee a Partner of thy chequer'd fate,
Pure as thy Genius, and as firmly great;
With equal love, with equal courage warm,
A kindred Spirit in a softer form:

Thy dear Maria shar'd thy captive hour,
She brav'd the vengeance of offended power;
And, with the fondness of Admetus' wife,
Restor'd thy freedom at the risk of life:
Her days were guarded by the Powers above;
And thy just lyre immortaliz'd her love.
Ye peerless Couple! tho' with wrongs opprest,
In virtue happy, and by union blest,
From Fame's fond lips your blended praise shall flow,
While Excellence can find a friend below;
While Love's chaste fires thro' human bosoms roll;
While Liberty and Truth delight the soul!
Your names, applauded by the spacious earth,
Still dignify the land that boasts your birth;
Tho' her tame Genius, Wealth's more willing slave,
Soon lost that mental fire, which Freedom gave,
Whose brilliant flame in sickly languor dies,
Where'er the damps of Avarice arise:
Hence, tho' less free, yet true to Honour's aim,
France is more opulent in letter'd fame.

There, in the dignity of virtuous Pride,
Thro' painful scenes of public service try'd,
And keenly conscious of his Country's woes,
The liberal spirit of Thuanus rose:
O'er Earth's wide stage a curious eye he cast,
And caught the living pageant as it past:
With patriot care most eager to advance
The rights of Nature, and the weal of France!
His language noble, as his temper clear
From Faction's rage, and Superstition's fear!
In Wealth laborious! amid Wrongs sedate!
His Virtue lovely, as his Genius great!
Ting'd with some marks, that from his climate spring,
He priz'd his Country, but ador'd his King;
Yet with a zeal from slavish awe refin'd,
Shone the clear model of a Gallic mind.
Thou friend of Science! 'twas thy signal praise,
A just memorial of her Sons to raise;

To blazon first, on Hist'ry's brighter leaf,
The laurel'd Writer with the laurel'd Chief!

But O! pure Spirit! what a fate was thine!
How Truth and Reason at thy wrongs repine!
How blame thy King, tho' rob'd in Honour's ray,
Who left thy Fame to subtle Priests a prey,
And tamely saw their murky wiles o'erwhelm
Thy works, the light of his reviving realm!

Tho' Pontiffs execrate, and Kings betray,
Let not this fate your generous warmth allay,
Ye kindred Worthies! who still dare to wield
Reason's keen sword, and Toleration's shield,
In climes where Persecution's iron mace
Is rais'd to massacre the human race!
The heart of Nature will your virtue feel,
And her immortal voice reward your zeal:
First in her praise her fearless champions live,
Crown'd with the noblest palms that earth can give.
Firm in this band, who to her aid advance,
And high amid th' Historic sons of France,

Delighted Nature saw, with partial care,
The lively vigour of the gay Voltaire;
And fondly gave him, with Anacreon's fire,
To throw the hand of Age across the lyre:
But mute that vary'd voice, which pleas'd so long!
Th' Historian's tale is clos'd, the Poet's song!
Within the narrow tomb behold him lie,
Who fill'd so large a space in Learning's eye!
Thou Mind unweary'd! thy long toils are o'er;
Censure and Praise can touch thy ear no more:
Still let me breathe with just regret thy name,
Lament thy foibles, and thy powers proclaim!

On the wide sea of Letters 'twas thy boast
To croud each sail, and touch at every coast:
From that rich deep how often hast thou brought
The pure and precious pearls of splendid Thought!
How didst thou triumph on that subject-tide,
Till Vanity's wild gust, and stormy Pride,
Drove thy strong bark, in evil hour, to split
Upon the fatal rock of impious Wit!

But be thy failings cover'd by thy tomb!
And guardian laurels o'er thy ashes bloom!

From the long annals of the world thy art,
With chemic process, drew the richer part;
To Hist'ry gave a philosophic air,
And made the interest of mankind her care;
Pleas'd her grave brow with garlands to adorn,
And from the rose of Knowledge strip the thorn.

Thy lively Eloquence, in prose, in verse,
Still keenly bright, and elegantly terse,
Flames with bold spirit; yet is idly rash:
Thy promis'd light is oft a dazzling flash;
Thy Wisdom verges to sarcastic sport,
Satire thy joy! and ridicule thy forte!
But the gay Genius of the Gallic soil,
Shrinking from solemn tasks of serious toil,
Thro' every scene his playful air maintains,
And in the light Memoir unrival'd reigns,

Thy Wits, O France! (as e'en thy Critics own)
Support not History's majestic tone;
They, like thy Soldiers, want, in feats of length,
The persevering soul of British strength.

Hail to thee, Britain! hail! delightful land!
I spring with filial joy to reach thy strand:
And thou! blest nourisher of Souls, sublime
As e'er immortaliz'd their native clime,
Rich in Poetic treasures, yet excuse
The trivial offering of an humble Muse,
Who pants to add, with fears by love o'ercome,
Her mite of Glory to thy countless sum!
With vary'd colours, of the richest dye,
Fame's brilliant banners o'er thy Offspring fly:
In native Vigour bold, by Freedom led,
No path of Honour have they fail'd to tread:
But while they wisely plan, and bravely dare,
Their own atchievements are their latest care.

Tho' Camden, rich in Learning's various store,
Sought in Tradition's mine Truth's genuine ore,
The waste of Hist'ry lay in lifeless shade,
Tho' Rawleigh's piercing eye that world survey'd.
Tho' mightier Names there cast a casual glance,
They seem'd to saunter round the field by chance,
Till Clarendon arose, and in the hour
When civil Discord wak'd each mental Power,
With brave desire to reach this distant Goal,
Strain'd all the vigour of his manly soul.
Nor Truth, nor Freedom's injur'd Powers, allow
A wreath unspotted to his haughty brow:
Friendship's firm spirit still his fame exalts,
With sweet atonement for his lesser faults.
His Pomp of Phrase, his Period of a mile,
And all the maze of his bewilder'd Style,
Illum'd by Warmth of Heart, no more offend:
What cannot Taste forgive, in Falkland's friend?
Nor flow his praises from this single source;
One province of his art displays his force:

His Portraits boast, with features strongly like,
The soft precision of the clear Vandyke:
Tho', like the Painter, his faint talents yield,
And sink embarrass'd in the Epic field.
Yet shall his labours long adorn our Isle,
Like the proud glories of some Gothic pile:
They, tho' constructed by a Bigot's hand,
Nor nicely finish'd, nor correctly plann'd,
With solemn Majesty, and pious Gloom,
An awful influence o'er the mind assume;
And from the alien eyes of every Sect
Attract observance, and command respect.

In following years, when thy great name, Nassau!
Stampt the blest deed of Liberty and Law;
When clear, and guiltless of Oppression's rage,
There rose in Britain an Augustan age,
And cluster'd Wits, by emulation bright,
Diffus'd o'er Anna's reign their mental light;
That Constellation seem'd, tho' strong its flame,
To want the splendor of Historic fame:

Yet Burnet's page may lasting glory hope,
Howe'er insulted by the spleen of Pope.
Tho' his rough Language haste and warmth denote,
With ardent Honesty of Soul he wrote;
Tho' critic censures on his work may shower,
Like Faith, his Freedom has a saving power.

Nor shalt thou want, Rapin! thy well-earn'd praise;
The sage Polybius thou of modern days!
Thy Sword, thy Pen, have both thy name endear'd;
This join'd our Arms, and that our Story clear'd:
Thy foreign hand discharg'd th' Historian's trust,
Unsway'd by Party, and to Freedom just.
To letter'd fame we own thy fair pretence,
From patient Labour, and from candid Sense.
Yet Public Favour, ever hard to fix,
Flew from thy page, as heavy and prolix.
For soon, emerging from the Sophists' school,
With Spirit eager, yet with Judgment cool,
With subtle skill to steal upon applause,
And give false vigour to the weaker cause;

To paint a specious scene with nicest art,
Retouch the whole, and varnish every part;
Graceful in Style, in Argument acute;
Master of every trick in keen Dispute!
With these strong powers to form a winning tale,
And hide Deceit in Moderation's veil,
High on the pinnacle of Fashion plac'd,
Hume shone the idol of Historic Taste.
Already, pierc'd by Freedom's searching rays,
The waxen fabric of his fame decays.—
Think not, keen Spirit! that these hands presume
To tear each leaf of laurel from thy tomb!
These hands! which, if a heart of human frame
Could stoop to harbour that ungenerous aim,
Would shield thy Grave, and give, with guardian care,
Each type of Eloquence to flourish there!
But Public Love commands the painful task,
From the pretended Sage to strip the mask,
When his false tongue, averse to Freedom's cause,
Profanes the spirit of her antient laws.

As Asia's soothing opiate Drugs, by stealth,
Shake every slacken'd nerve, and sap the health;
Thy Writings thus, with noxious charms refin'd,
Seeming to soothe its ills, unnerve the Mind.
While the keen cunning of thy hand pretends
To strike alone at Party's abject ends,
Our hearts more free from Faction's Weeds we feel,
But they have loft the Flower of Patriot Zeal.
Wild as thy feeble Metaphysic page,
Thy Hist'ry rambles into Sceptic rage;
Whose giddy and fantastic dreams abuse
A Hampden's Virtue, and a Shakespear's Muse.

With purer Spirit, free from Party strife,
To soothe his evening hour of honour'd life,
See candid Lyttelton at length unfold
The deeds of Liberty in days of old!
Fond of the theme, and narrative with age,
He winds the lengthen'd tale thro' many a page;
But there the beams of Patriot Virtue shine;
There Truth and Freedom sanctify the line,

And laurels, due to Civil Wisdom, shield
This noble Nestor of th' Historic field.

The living Names, who there display their power,
And give its glory to the present hour,
I pass with mute regard; in fear to fail,
Weighing their worth in a suspected scale:
Thy right, Posterity! I sacred hold,
To fix the stamp on literary Gold:
Blest! if this lighter Ore, which I prepare
For thy supreme Assay, with anxious care,
Thy current sanction unimpeach'd enjoy,
As only tinctur'd with a slight alloy!

END OF THE SECOND EPISTLE.

EPISTLE THE THIRD.

Ventum est ad partem operis destinati longe gravissimam— nunc quoque, licet major quam unquam moles premat, tamen prospicienti finem mihi constitutum est vel deficere potius, quam desperare—nostra temeritas etiam mores ei conabitur dare, et assignabit officia. Quintil. Lib. xii.

ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD EPISTLE.

The sources of the chief defects in History—Vanity, national and private—Flattery, and her various arts— Party-spirit—Superstition—and false Philosophy.— Character of the accomplish'd Historian.—The Laws of History.—Style.—Importance of the subject.— Failure of Knolles from a subject ill-chosen.—Danger of dwelling on the distant and minute parts of a subject really interesting—Failure of Milton in this particular.—The worst defect of an Historian, a system of Tyranny—Instance in Brady.—Want of a General History of England: Wish for its accomplishment.—Use and Delight of other Histories—of Rome.—Labour of the Historian—Cavils against him.—Concern for Gibbon's irreligious spirit— The idle censure of his passion for Fame—Defence of that passion.—Conclusion.

Say thou! whose eye has, like the Lynx's beam,
Pierc'd the deep windings of this mazy stream,
Say, from what source the various Poisons glide,
That darken History's discolour'd tide;
Whose purer waters to the mind dispense
The wealth of Virtue, and the fruits of Sense!—
These Poisons flow, collective and apart,
From Public Vanity, and Private Art.

At first Delusion built her safe retreat
On the broad base of National Conceit:
Nations, like Men, in Flattery confide,
The slaves of Fancy, and the dupes of Pride.
Each petty region of the peopled earth,
Howe'er debas'd by intellectual dearth,
Still proudly boasted of her claims to share
The richest portion of celestial care:
For her she saw the rival Gods engage,
And Heaven convuls'd with elemental rage.
To her the thunder's roar, the lightning's fire,
Confirm'd their favour, or denounc'd their ire.
To seize this foible, daring Hist'ry threw
Illusive terrors o'er each scene she drew;
Nor would her spirit, in the heat of youth,
Watch, with a Vestal's care, the lamp of Truth;
But, wildly mounting in a Witch's form,
Her voice delighted to condense the storm;
With showers of blood th' astonish'd earth to drench,
The frame of Nature from its base to wrench;

In Horror's veil involve her plain events,
And shake th' affrighted world with dire portents.
Still softer arts her subtle spirit try'd,
To win the easy faith of Public Pride:
She told what Powers, in times of early date,
Gave consecration to the infant State;
Mark'd the blest spot by sacred Founders trod,
And all th' atchievements of the guardian God.
Thus while, like Fame, she rests upon the land,
Her figure grows; her magic limbs expand;
Her tow'ring head, to high Olympus tost,
Pierces the sky, and in that blaze is lost.

Yet bold Philosophy at length destroy'd
The brilliant phantoms of th' Historic void;
Her scrutinizing eye, whose search severe
Rivals the pressure of Ithuriel's spear,
Permits no fraudful semblance to escape,
But turns each Marvel to its real shape.

The blazing meteors fall from Hist'ry's sphere;
Her darling Demi-gods no more appear;
No more the Nations, with heroic joy,
Boast their descent from Heaven-descended Troy:
On Francio now the Gallic page is mute,
And British Story drops the name of Brute.
What other failings from this fountain flow'd,
Ill-measur'd fame on martial feats bestow'd,
And heaps, enlarg'd to mountains of the slain,
The miracles of valour, still remain.
But of all faults, that injur'd Truth may blame,
Those proud mistakes the first indulgence claim,
Where Public Zeal the ardent Pen betrays,
And Patriot Passions swell the partial praise.
Ev'n private Vanity may pardon find,
When built on Worth, and with Instruction join'd:
In British Annalists more rarely found,
This venial foible springs on foreign ground:

'Tis theirs, who scribble near the Seine or Loire,
Those lively Heroes of the light Memoir!

Defects more hateful to ingenuous eyes,
In Adulation's servile arts arise:
Mean Child of Int'rest! as her Parent base!
Her charms Deformity! her wealth Disgrace!
Dimm'd by her breath, the light of Learning fades;
Her breath the wisest of mankind degrades,
And Bacon's self, for mental glory born,
Meets, as her slave, our pity, or our scorn.
Unhappy Genius! in whose wond'rous mind
The sordid Reptile and the Seraph join'd;
Now traversing the world on Wisdom's wings,
Now basely crouching to the last of Kings:
Thy fault, which Freedom with regret surveys,
This useful Truth, in strongest light, displays;
That not sufficient are those shining parts,
Which shed new radiance o'er concenter'd arts;

To reach with glory the Historic goal
Demands a firm, an independent soul,
An eagle-eye, that with undazzled gaze
Can look on Majesty's meridian blaze.
But Adulation, in the worst of times,
Throws her broad mantle o'er imperial crimes;
In Hist'ry's field, her abject toils delight
To shut the scenes of Nature from our sight,
Each human Virtue in one mass to fling,
And of that mountain make the statue of a King.
Yet oft her labours, slighted or abhorr'd,
Receive in present scorn their just reward;
Scorn from that Idol, at whose feet she lays
The sordid offering of her venal praise.

As crown'd with Indian laurels, nobly won,
His conquest ended, Philip's warlike Son
Sail'd down th' Hydaspes in a voyage of sport,
The chief Historian of his sumptuous court

Read his description of the single fight,
Where Porus yielded to young Ammon's might;
And, like a Scribe in courtly arts adroit,
Most largely magnify'd his Lord's exploit:
Tho' ever on the stretch to Glory's goal,
Fame the first passion of his fiery soul!
Fierce from his seat the indignant Hero sprung,
And o'er the vessel's side the volume flung;
Then, as he saw the fawning Scribbler shrink,
“Thus should the Author with his Writing sink,
“Who stifles Truth in Flattery's disguise,
“And buries honest Fame beneath a load of Lies.”

But modern Princes, having less to lose,
Rarely these insults on their name accuse:
In Dedications quietly inurn'd,
They take more lying Praise than Ammon spurn'd,
And Learning's pliant Sons, to flattery prone,
Bend with such blind obeisance to the throne,

The basest King that ever curst the earth,
Finds many a witness to attest his worth:
Tho' dead, still flatter'd by some abject slave,
He spreads contagious poison from his grave,
While sordid hopes th' Historian's hand entice
To varnish ev'n the tomb of Royal Vice.

Tho' Nature wept with desolated Spain,
In tears of blood, the second Philip's reign;
Tho' such deep sins deform'd his sullen mind,
As merit execration from mankind:
A mighty empire by his crimes undone;
A people massacred; a murder'd son:
Tho' Heaven's displeasure stopt his parting breath,
To bear long loathsome pangs of hideous death;
Flattery can still the Ruffian's praise repeat,
And call this Waster of the earth discreet:
Still can Herrera, mourning o'er his urn,
His dying pangs to blissful rapture turn,

And paint the King, from earth by curses driven,
A Saint, accepted by approving Heaven!

But arts of deeper guile, and baser wrong,
To Adulation subtle Scribes belong:
They oft, their present idols to exalt,
Profanely burst the consecrated vault;
Steal from the buried Chief bright Honour's plume,
Or stain with Slander's gall the Statesman's tomb:
Stay, sacrilegious slaves! with reverence tread
O'er the blest ashes of the worthy dead!
See! where, uninjur'd by the charnel's damp,
The Vestal, Virtue, with undying lamp,
Fond of her toil, and jealous of her trust,
Sits the keen Guardian of their sacred dust,
And thus indignant, from the depth of earth,
Checks your vile aim, and vindicates their worth:
“Hence ye! who buried excellence belied,
“To sooth the sordid spleen of living Pride;
“Go! gild with Adulation's feeble ray
“Th' imperial pageant of your passing day!

“Nor hope to stain, on base Detraction's scroll,
“A Tully's morals, or a Sidney's soul!”—
Just Nature will abhor, and Virtue scorn,
That Pen, tho' eloquence its page adorn,
Which, brib'd by Interest, or from vain pretence
To subtler Wit, and deep-discerning Sense,
Would blot the praise on public toils bestow'd,
And Patriot passions, as a jest, explode.

Less abject failings spring from Party-rage,
The pest most frequent in th' Historic page;
That common jaundice of the turbid brain,
Which leaves the heart unconscious of a stain,
Yet suffers not the clouded mind to view
Or men, or actions, in their native hue:
For Party mingles, in her feverish dreams,
Credulity and Doubt's most wild extremes:
She gazes thro' a glass, whose different ends
Reduce her foes, and magnify her friends:

Delusion ever on her spirit dwells;
And to the worst excess its fury swells,
When Superstition's raging passions roll
Their savage frenzy thro' the Bigot's soul.

Nor less the blemish, tho' of different kind,
From false Philosophy's conceits refin'd!
Her subtle influence, on History shed,
Strikes the fine nerve of Admiration dead,
(That nerve despis'd by sceptic sons of earth,
Yet still a vital spring of human worth.)
This artful juggler, with a skill so nice,
Shifts the light forms of Virtue and of Vice,
That, ere they wake abhorrence or delight,
Behold! they both are vanish'd from the sight;
And Nature's warm affections, thus destroy'd,
Leave in the puzzled mind a lifeless void.

Far other views the liberal Genius fire,
Whose toils to pure Historic praise aspire;

Nor Moderation's dupe, nor Faction's brave,
Nor Guilt's apologist, nor Flattery's slave:
Wise, but not cunning; temperate, not cold;
Servant of Truth, and in that service bold;
Free from all bias, save that just controul
By which mild Nature sways the manly soul,
And Reason's philanthropic spirit draws
To Virtue's interest, and Freedom's cause;
Those great ennoblers of the human name,
Pure springs of Power, of Happiness, and Fame!
To teach their influence, and spread their sway,
The just Historian winds his toilsome way;
From silent darkness, creeping o'er the earth,
Redeems the sinking trace of useful worth;
In Vice's bosom marks the latent thorn,
And brands that public pest with public scorn.
A lively teacher in a moral school!
In that great office steady, clear, and cool!
Pleas'd to promote the welfare of mankind,
And by informing meliorate the mind!

Such the bright task committed to his care!
Boundless its use; but its completion rare.

Critics have said, “Tho' high th' Historian's charge,
His Laws are simple tho' his Province large;
Two obvious rules ensure his full success—
To speak no Falsehood; and no Truth suppress:
Art must to other works a lustre lend,
But History pleases, howsoe'er it's penn'd.”

Perchance in ruder periods; but in those,
Where all the luxury of Learning flows,
To Truth's plain fare no palate will submit,
Each reader grows an Epicure in Wit;
And Knowledge must his nicer taste beguile
With all the poignant charms of Attic style.
The curious Scholar, in his judgment choice,
Expects no common Notes from History's voice;
But all the tones, that all the passions suit,
From the bold Trumpet to the tender Lute:

Yet if thro' Music's scale her voice should range,
Now high, now low, with many a pleasing change,
Grace must thro' every variation glide,
In every movement Majesty preside:
With ease not careless, tho' correct not cold;
Soft without languor, without harshness bold.

Tho' Affectation can all works debase,
In Language, as in Life, the bane of Grace!
Regarded ever with a scornful smile,
She most is censur'd in th' Historic style:
Yet her insinuating power is such,
Not ev'n the Greeks escap'd her baleful touch;
Hence the fictitious Speech, and long Harangue,
Too oft, like weights, on ancient Story hang.
Less fond of labour, modern Pens devise
Affected beauties of inferior size:
They in a narrower compass boldly strike
The fancied Portrait, with no feature like;
And Nature's simple colouring vainly quit,
To boast the brilliant glare of fading Wit.

Those works alone may that blest fate expect
To live thro' time, unconscious of neglect,
That catch, in springing from no sordid source,
The ease of Nature, and of Truth the force.

But not ev'n Truth, with bright expression grac'd,
Nor all Description's powers, in lucid order plac'd,
Not even these a fond regard engage,
Or bind attention to th' Historic page,
If distant tribes compose th' ill-chosen Theme,
Whose savage virtues wake no warm esteem;
Where Faith and Valour spring from Honour's grave,
Only to form th' Assassin and the Slave.
From Turkish tyrants, stain'd with servile gore,
Enquiry turns; and Learning's sighs deplore,
While o'er his name Neglect's cold shadow rolls,
A waste of Genius in the toil of Knolles.
There are, we own, whose magic power is such,
Their hands embellish whatsoe'er they touch:

Their bright Mosaic so enchants our eyes,
By nice Arrangement, and contrasted Dies,
What mean materials in the texture lurk,
Serve but to raise the wonder of the work.
Yet from th' Historian (as such power is rare)
The choice of Matter claims no trifling care.

'Tis not alone collected Wealth's display,
Nor the proud fabric of extended Sway,
That mark (tho' both the eye of Wonder fill)
The happy Subject for Historic skill:
Wherever Nature, tho' in narrow space,
Fosters, by Freedom's aid, a liberal race;
Sees Virtue save them from Oppression's den,
And cries with exultation, “These are Men;”
Tho' in Bœotia or Batavia born,
Their deeds the Story of the World adorn.

The Subject fix'd, with force and beauty fraught,
Just Disposition claims yet deeper thought;
To cast enlivening Order's lucid grace
O'er all the crouded fields of Time and Space;

To shew each wheel of Power in all its force,
And trace the streams of Action from their source;
To catch, with spirit and precision join'd,
The varying features of the human Mind;
The Grace, the Strength, that Nature's children draw
From Arts, from Science, Policy, and Law;
Opinion's fashion, Wisdom's firmer plan,
And all that marks the character of Man.
Of all the parts, that History's volume fill,
The just Digression claims the nicest skill;
As the swift Hero, in the Olympic race,
Ran with less toil along the open space;
But round the Goal to form the narrow curve,
Call'd forth his utmost strength from every nerve.

The Subject's various powers let Study tell!
And teach th' Historian on what points to dwell!
How in due shades to sink each meaner part,
And pour on nobler forms the radiance of his art!
Tho' Patriot Love the curious spirit fires
With thirst to hear th' atchievements of his Sires;

And British story wins the British mind
With all the charms that fond attention bind;
Its early periods, barbarous and remote,
Please not, tho' drawn by Pens of noblest note:
O'er those rude scenes Confusion's shadows dwell,
Beyond the power of Genius to dispell;
Mists! which ev'n Milton's splendid mind enshroud;
Lost in the darkness of the Saxon cloud!

Neglect alone repays their flight offence,
Whose wand'ring wearies our bewilder'd sense:
But just Abhorrence brands his guilty name,
Who dares to vilify his Country's fame;
With Slander's rage the pen of History grasp,
And pour from thence the poison of the Asp;
The murd'rous falsehood, stifling Honour's breath!
The slavish tenet, Public Virtue's death!
With all that undermines a Nation's health,
And robs the People of their richest wealth!
Ye tools of Tyranny! whose servile guile
Would thus pollute the records of our isle,

Behold your Leader curst with public hate,
And read your just reward in Brady's fate!

O sacred Liberty! shall Faction's train
Pervert the reverend archives of thy reign?
Shall slaves traduce the blood thy votaries spilt,
Blaspheming Glory with the name of Guilt?
And shall no Son of thine their wiles o'erwhelm,
And clear the story of thy injur'd realm?
To this bright task some British spirit raise,
With powers surpassing ev'n a Livy's praise!
Thro' this long wilderness his march inspire,
And make thy temperate flame his leading fire!
Teach his keen eye, and comprehensive soul,
To pierce each darker part, and grasp the whole!
Let Truth's undoubted signet seal his page,
And Glory guard the work from age to age!
That British minds from this pure source may draw
Sense of thy Rights, and passion for thy Law,

Wisdom to prize, and Honour, that aspires
To reach that virtue which adorn'd our Sires!

But not alone our native land attracts;
Far different Nations boast their splendid facts:
In ancient Story the rich fruits unite
Of civil Wisdom and sublime Delight.
At Rome's proud name Attention's spirits rise,
Rome, the first idol of our infant eyes!
Use and Importance mark the vast design,
Clearly to trace her periods of Decline.
Yet here, O Gibbon! what long toils ensue?
How winds the labyrinth? how fails the clue?
Tho' rude materials Time's deep trenches fill,
A radiant structure rises from thy skill;
Whose splendor, springing from a dreary waste,
Enchants the wondering eye of Public Taste.
Thus to the ancient traveller, whose way
Across the hideous sands of Syria lay,
The Desart blaz'd with sudden glory bright;
And rich Palmyra rush'd upon his sight.

But O! what foes beset each honour'd Name,
Advancing in the path of letter'd fame!
To stop thy progress, and insult thy pen,
The fierce Polemic issues from his den.

Think not my Verse means blindly to engage
In rash defence of thy profaner page!
Tho' keen her spirit, her attachment fond,
Base service cannot suit with Friendship's bond;
Too firm from Duty's facred path to turn,
She breathes an honest sigh of deep concern,
And pities Genius, when his wild career
Gives Faith a wound, or Innocence a fear.
Humility herself, divinely mild,
Sublime Religion's meek and modest child,
Like the dumb Son of Croesus, in the strife,
Where Force assail'd his Father's sacred life,
Breaks silence, and, with filial duty warm,
Bids thee revere her Parent's hallow'd form!

Far other sounds the ear of Learning stun,
From proud Theology's contentious Son;
Less eager to correct, than to revile,
Rage in his voice! and Rancour in his style!
His idle scoffs with coarse reproof deride
Thy generous thirst of Praise, and liberal Pride;
Since thy frank spirit dares that wish avow,
Which Nature owns, and Wisdom must allow!
The noble Instinct, Love of lasting Fame,
Was wisely planted in the human frame:
From hence the brightest rays of History flow;
To this their Vigour and their Use they owe.
Nor scorns fair Virtue this untainted source,
From hence she often draws her lovely force:
For Heaven this passion with our life combin'd,
Which, like a central power, impels the languid mind.
When, clear from Envy's cloud, that general pest!
It burns most brightly in the Author's breast,

Its soothing hopes his various pains beguile,
And give to Learning's face her sweetest smile:
What joy, to think his Genius may create
Existence far beyond the common date!
His Wealth of Mind to latest ages give,
And in Futurity's affection live!
From unborn beauty, still to Fancy dear,
Draw with soft magic the delightful tear;
Or thro' the bosom of far distant Youth
Spread the warm glow of Liberty and Truth!

O Gibbon! by thy frank ambition taught,
Let me like thee maintain th' enlivening thought,
That, from Oblivion's killing cloud secure,
My Hope may prosper and my Verse endure:
While thy bright Name, on History's car sublime,
Rolls in just triumph o'er the field of Time,
May I, unfaltering, thy long march attend,
No flattering Slave! but an applauding Friend!

Display th' imperfect sketch I fondly drew,
Of that wide province, where thy laurels grew;
And, honour'd with a wreath of humbler bays,
Join the loud Pæan of thy lasting praise!

END OF THE THIRD EPISTLE.

END OF SECOND VOLUME